Crotalus
by SalemsChild
Summary: Sam pays the price when a chink in Dean’s armor results in a silly argument. Can the boys make it out of the woods in time, or does Mother Nature have other ideas? Limp!Sam, Angsty!Guilty!Dean. NOW COMPLETE - LOOK FOR SEQUEL "ATROX".
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I wanted to do a story that revolved around the boys encountering trouble from NON-supernatural foes/situations and, well, the result was this story. I always try to go for a high degree of medical accuracy but I will say that I reserve the right to fudge stuff if it means I can add to the story in other ways, such as angst. Heck, Hollywood's allowed to do it, so why not me?

First chapter or so will be from a standard, third-person perspective. Later chapters will be from a first-person (DeanPOV or SamPOV) perspective. It'll make sense when we get there.

**I WILL BE POSTING CHAPTERS ON A WEEKLY BASIS, EITHER SUNDAY OR MONDAY**

**Summary: **Sam pays the price when a chink in Dean's armor results in childish behavior and a silly argument. Can the boys make it out of the woods in time, or does Mother Nature have other ideas? Limp!Sam, Angsty!Guilty!Dean

**Disclaimer: **Sam and Dean are, sadly, the property of Eric Kripke and the CW Network. I make no profit from this story other than the perverted joy I get from 'Pimping the Limp'. All standard disclaimers apply.

**Dedication: **This story is dedicated to Faye Dartmouth, SFTCOL(AR)S member and co-founder, whose sick desire for a particular, ultimately-limp Sam is the basis of this story. Love ya, girl, and I hope my abuse of Sam lives up to your twisted fantasies. LOL!

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 1: Miles to Go Before I Sleep**

This particular hunt had been unusual in several respects. Not only had the boys ended up going further afield than either had ever expected, but their prey was something not normally found in this region of the country and it had left them with a nagging feeling that the spread of evil was beginning to get the upper hand. Even still, the successful eradication of the Wendigo that had been plaguing this mountainous area of Southern California for months had left the boys with a sense of exhausted satisfaction that spoke loudly of a job well done. Best of all, was the knowledge each of them carried that neither boy had suffered more than a few insignificantly superficial scratches during the course of the hunt.

Now, all that stood in front of them was the long trek back to civilization, to something Dean was looking forward to more than just about anything...the bed that was waiting for him back at the ratty, two-bit excuse for a motel they'd managed to find a few miles south of the trailhead. Yeah, so OK, most people wouldn't be looking forward to returning to some lumpy, musty-smelling bed in a motel that time seemed to have ravaged more relentlessly than most, but as far as Dean was concerned it sure as hell beat more camping, by any stretch of the imagination.

Although Sam had previously agreed with Dean's hatred of camping, this job had been different. Once the Wendigo had been neutralized and the danger had passed, Sam found himself drinking in their surroundings and marveling at the stark beauty that abounded in all directions. It had been some time since he'd been back to California and just being here flooded him with pleasant memories of his time at Stanford...and of Jess.

Jess had loved the varied and rugged terrain of the high country. She, Sam and numerous friends had spent many weekends and school breaks exploring the campsites and trails that twisted their way from stands of towering redwoods through barren, jutting rock faces and finally on to lush, rolling fields that exploded with the vivid, gaudy color of native wildflowers. Sam subconsciously grinned to himself, allowing more and more unbidden and half-forgotten memories of his long-ago 'normal' life at Stanford to cascade freely over him as he strode alongside his older brother.

"You want to let me in on whatever pornographic thoughts got you grinning like a fool, there, Poindexter?" Sam startled slightly at the sudden sound of his brother's voice slicing through the silent serenity of his memories. Dean chuckled lightly, taking his brother's surprised reaction as a wordless admission that Dean had caught him out in exactly what he was accusing Sam of.

"It wasn't porn, Dean," the younger boy protested. "That would be your thoughts, not mine."

Dean allowed a self-satisfied smirk to cross his face, knowing full well that he was getting to Sam and snickered once again. "Yeah, whatever."

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam continued to assert and added quietly, "I was thinking about Jess."

"Yeah. Ok, Sam," Dean replied sarcastically, intentionally provoking his kid brother even further. After all, after his primary job of protecting Sam, wasn't it a first-born, older brother's God-given duty to torment younger siblings? "Thoughts of Jess...not pornographic. Whatever you say."

"Forget it. You wouldn't get it anyway," Sam huffed and they continued hiking in silence.

Minutes later, the rough, neglected and little-used trail that Sam and Dean had been hiking for several hours suddenly fanned out. More a bulge in the trail then an actual clearing, the smooth rock ledges offered the welcome prospect of a spot to sit and rest their aching feet. Dean tossed down his pack and arched his back, aching muscles registering their annoyance as they reached the apex of his stretch.

Sam tossed his pack next to Dean's and plopped heavily onto the nearest rock, a tired sigh sliding out as Sam extended his long legs in front of him and rubbed at the tops of his thighs.

"Dude! What the shit were you thinking," Dean questioned irritably as he bent, snatching up Sam's pack and flinging it angrily across the trail where it violently landed against the jagged rock outcropping with an abrupt 'thwack'. "I don't want that stink all over my stuff."

Sam snorted indignantly. "Quit being such a child. My stuff wouldn't smell like that if you hadn't freaked at seeing that skunk cross our trail and thrown my pack at it like some girl!"

"I did _not_ freak. That skunk was obviously evil...or possessed or something," Dean asserted lamely. "The only reason it didn't attack is because I scared it off by throwing your pack at it."

"Evil skunks?" Sam questioned snidely. "It would have ambled harmlessly right on by if you hadn't flipped out but, no, you grab _my_ pack and goad the thing into spraying all over it by lobbing it at the poor thing."

Dean huffed indignantly. "You're just pissed because I saved your ass...again."

Dean, Sam decided, was a study in incongruous contrasts. He could easily stand unflinching in the face of pure evil, facing down demons, angry spirits and unspeakable monsters, and yet was terrified of flying...and skunks. Dean had been Sam's hero, his knight in shining armor, since he was a toddler in diapers and, although he'd learned over the years of the few chinks in that armor, he wouldn't dream of pressing his older brother _too_ hard with quirks that Dean obviously saw as shortcomings. So, instead, Sam said nothing more, just smiled a lop-sided, dimpled grin at his brother's preposterous justifications and shook his head.

Sighing, Sam pulled his long legs back and placing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself to his full height. A few long strides later he stooped in front of his discarded pack, his right hand grabbing at the odorous fabric. Sam's brain registered a sudden blur of motion just an instant before he felt the piercing pain in his right hand. The young man drew back instinctively, his right forearm clutched tightly in his left hand and held closely to his body.

"Aahhh...geez!"

Dean looked up questioningly to see Sam cradling his right arm and staring transfixed at something on the ground. "Sam? Something wrong?"

Sam cautiously backed a few steps, his eyes never wavering from the ground. "Huh?"

Something about Sam's distracted and almost fearful behavior set off alarm bells in Dean's head. Quickly crossing the clearing to stand at Sam's side, Dean followed his baby brother's line of sight. There, lying tightly coiled near Sam's now forgotten duffel was a large amber snake, its back adorned with nearly symmetrical diamond-shaped patches of black that faded to gray and black rings at the tail. It's triangular shaped head and neck were drawn back menacingly and elevated several inches from the rock bed as it aggressively stood its ground. Dean wasn't certain of the exact identification of the snake, but the large and angrily shaken rattles at the end of its body gave him a pretty good clue.

Dean wrenched Sam away in one motion and frantically searched his brother for signs of a bite. "Did it get you? Were you bitten?"

* * *

**To be continued...**


	2. Snakebite

**Disclaimer:** As with all of my stories, this one is un-beta'd. Any flubs, goofs or other WTF's that occur are mine and mine alone. I try to be medically accurate, but I _**do**_ reserve the right to "fudge" things a bit if it will add to the story. In addition, the wilderness setting for this story is fictitious and any resemblance to actual California local, State or Federal Parks is purely accidental.

**A/N: **Although popular (Hollywood) belief holds that rattlesnake bites kill within minutes, this is generally not true and is actually very rare. Rattlesnake venom's early effects are almost always confined to local, although intense, pain at the sight of the bite. Systemic (potentially deadly) toxicity from the venom does not normally occur for several hours.

Just a few secondary notes to avoid confusion:

QRS: Quick Response Service - specific division of Emergency Medical Services/Search and Rescue that deploy almost instantaneously after a call comes in for rescue/medical missions in any community, but especially in remote wilderness areas.

Ranger Rick: A U. S. children's magazine produced by the National Wildlife Federation that concentrates on wildlife, nature discovery and camping. The magazine's mascot is a comic strip raccoon known as Ranger Rick.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 2: Snakebite**

**Sam's POV**

Somewhere along the way I suppose my brain actually registered the motion, but everything happened so fast that I had no idea just _what _it was that had moved. The extraordinary speed of the snake's strike didn't allow enough time for my brain to process that the blur of motion was an actual threat until it was far too late.

It's probably hard to believe, but the bite didn't really even hurt all that much; sort of like a bee sting, actually. More than anything else, it was the unexpected surprise of it all that made me snatch my hand back. In fact, I stood there clutching my right arm, staring dumbfoundedly at the rattler, while my brain took the few seconds or so it needed to put two and two together and realize just what had happened. By then, the Western Diamondback rattler had re-coiled, prepared to strike again, if necessary, and I found myself oddly mesmerized by its aggressive and dangerous beauty.

I was unaware that I'd let a pained yelp slip past my lips until Dean is staring at me with that 'gotta-protect-Sammy' look he gets and starts asking me if anything's wrong. Man, I was _really_ hoping to get away from one hunt, just _one_ hunt, without having to deal with Dean in over-protective, big brother mode. Yeah, I know he's my brother and he feels responsible for me, but geez. I'm twenty-four years old, dude, don't you think it's about time to quit the mother hen routine? I can take care of myself.

_Take care of myself._ Yeah, that's a good one. Sure did a great job of taking care of myself _this_ time. I suppose, instead of cutting myself up, I should be angry at Dean. I mean, it was Dean acting like an infantile jackass that ticked the rattler off in the first place. But, I _am_ a hunter, and I know about the dangerous wildlife that makes this forest their home, so I should have been paying better attention to what was around me.

I figure I'm as much to blame for this as Dean is, but I don't have the time to go all philosophically analytical on it because I still have to get myself out of this jam. What's that old saying? 'Once bitten, twice shy'...yeah, that's it and I plan to take it to heart. The snake has already bitten me once and I'm still well within striking distance for another bite if the rattler continues to feel threatened. Cautiously, I back a few steps to get out of the snake's range, but my eyes never wander from it, watching it for signs that it's going to strike again.

Next thing I know, Dean's by my side, his eyes going wide when he spots the snake drawn back in striking position with its large rattles buzzing away in irritation. Before I know what's happening, he's grabbed me by the front of my shirt, ripped me around and away from the rattler, and is yelling something about whether I was bitten.

Somewhat shellshocked, I absently hold out my right hand to get a look at it, forgetting that Dean's standing right there and is going to see everything I'm going to see. There, at the fleshy, webbedarea near the base of my right thumb are two distinct puncture wounds that are oozing small droplets of blood.

The rain-washed early Spring air is still, except for a breathless whisper. "Sammy..."

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

Sam had tossed his stinking, skunk-y pack down with mine. He knew very well that a smell like that was gonna make my stuff stink, too, but he did it anyway, just to get back at me for tossing it at that skunk in the first place...and to piss me off. I didn't even bother to look to see where it was going to land, I just flung it in irritation. Mostly, I was irritated that the annoying little shit was right. Spiders, rats, demons, ghosts, Wendigos and a host of other supernatural beasties - fine. Skunks and airplanes, not so fine. Ok, so I _did_ act like a girl about the skunk...but Sammy's all girl with those damned chick-flick moments he's so fond of. And, yeah, the evil skunk excuse might have been lame but it did shut you up, didn't it Sammy-boy?

I have my back turned when I hear Sam yell out. Right away I know something's wrong; that he's not just fooling around, being a jerk. Sam's standing there holding his right arm, has it pressed up against his body like it's going to fall off if he lets go. I'm talking to him, asking him what's wrong and he's not listening. Alright, so maybe Sam not listening to me isn't all _that_ unusual...but he's staring intently at the ground like he's never seen dirt before and that _is_ unusual. It's enough to get my big brother alarm bells going off and I'm done just standing around talking. If Sammy's going to ignore me, then I'll make it so that he can't.

I cross the clearing to Sam's side and follow his line of sight to see a large amber snake lying tightly coiled near the duffel. I don't really know anything about snakes, but the nasty-ass rattle it's shaking pretty much makes it clear.

Without even thinking, I've got Sammy's shirt bunched in my hands and I'm pulling him across the clearing and looking him over for bites all at the same time. I can feel my stomach clenching in knots when I see the bleeding puncture wounds on Sam's hand and the only thing I can manage to whisper is his name. "Sammy..."

It's just one word, but somehow I know that Sam understands all of the thoughts and emotions that are packed behind it. _Oh, my God, it bit you. You've gotta be OK. How could I have been such an idiotic jerk? I never should have thrown your duffel like that. I know the dangers out here. What was I thinking? Please be OK, Sammy, please._

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

After the initial shock of being bitten, I'm finally finding my voice again. Even though Dean is hiding behind his Austin Powers, 'danger is my middle name' wall of calm, I know, behind that wall, Dean's freaking out worrying about the bite. I want to put Dean's mind at ease but, mostly I just want to get him to back off. The bite looks pretty minor and I don't think I can stand to have Dean obsessively mothering me for the hour or so it'll take to get back to the Impala.

"It's alright, Dean. I'm fine...really. A lot of Western Diamondback bites are dry...bites where no venom gets injected. The bite really doesn't even hurt now, so I'm sure it was dry. I was just surprised by it, that's all."

"Sam, we can't take any chances." Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone and GPS unit. "I'm going to call the ranger's station, give them our coordinates and have them send up one of the Search and Rescue QRS teams. We need to get you out of here and to a hospital."

"I don't think so."

"Don't argue with me, Sam." I notice Dean's voice is practically a growl and I know he's working up to laying down a John Winchester-style order. "You're getting checked at a hospital whether you like it, or not."

Yep, there it is - a heaping plate of John Winchester with a side order of hovering Dean. I decide that if the snake's bite isn't going to kill me, Dean's constant harping probably will. The last thing I want to do is argue with Dean, but he'll find out eventually anyway, so I figure I might just as well tell him what I already know.

"No, Dean. What I meant was, don't count on the cell phone and GPS. Cells don't generally work anywhere in this mountain range and GPS is just about useless here. The tree cover's just too dense to get good communication with the satellite."

"Dry bites, snake identification, the quirks of this area? This whole hunt you've acted like you're Grizzly Adams, himself. How do you know all of this shit?"

"Jess and I...we'd hike into the high country around here most every weekend with friends. We took all of the wilderness education and safety courses given by the various park rangers."

"Geekboy even managed to find a way to study when he went camping. Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"Yeah, well, it obviously paid off."

I see Dean's facial expression change and I know that he doesn't see things my way. And if I know Dean the way I think I do, his sarcastically stated confirmation of that isn't far behind.

"OK, Ranger Rick…"

Bingo! Score one for the tall, lanky younger brother.

"...you've been bitten by a poisonous snake, we have no way of knowing whether any venom was injected or not, the GPS is unreliable at best, our cell phones aren't worth crap out here and we're one _hell_ of a hike from getting to the trailhead. Unless your wilderness classes can get the GPS and cell phones to work, magically transport us to the ranger's station or make the snake want to kiss and make up and take back its bite, I'm not seeing the pay off."

I roll my eyes at my older brother's overly dramatic review of the situation. Whenever it comes down to a question of _my_ health or safety, Dean's more than ready to roll out the worst case scenarios and throw caution to the wind in order to protect me. But when the tables are turned and _he's_ the one in trouble, well, Dean's absolutely certain he's 'fine' and he refuses to take precautions. Just thinking about the way Dean's always so ready to sacrifice himself infuriates me and it puts a defensive tone in my voice. "The _pay off_ is that one of the things we covered in the courses was how to deal with snakebites."

Dean's brow creases as though some significant and ultimately unpleasant realization has suddenly occurred to him. "Oh, dude, please tell me I won't have to suck the venom out. 'Cause if it ever got out that I had to put a lip-lock on my kid brother...even if it _is_ just your hand...I mean, come on...everyone seems to think we're gay as it is and that's just not going to help, you know..."

I can't help but laugh inwardly. That kid at the motel where we hunted the Shtriga really got under Dean's skin with the whole 'two Queens' comment and the assumptions made by the sweet lady that owned the Pierpont Inn had only compounded Dean's discomfort. Ever since then, Dean's been hyper-sensitive about _anything_ that might be misconstrued by someone as evidence that he's gay.

"Dean, you've really got to stop watching so many crappy 'B' movies. Nobody outside of Hollywood advises sucking on bites...or cutting into the fang marks to make it bleed, for that matter. Since I'm not having any symptoms, we just need to wash it off and then we can get moving again."

"What? No. Shouldn't someone in your condition be sitting down and resting?"

"Someone in my condition? Dean, I'm bitten, not _pregnant_."

"As moody and girlie as you are, _Samantha_, I could see pregnancy being a definite possibility."

"Real mature, Dean." My brother is the king of snarky comebacks and I'm sure he could go on all day like this if I don't get him back on track. "I told you, I'm fine. Anyway, bite or no bite, unless we sprout wings, there's no way out of here except to hike out."

**§§§§§§**

The first tell-tale tingle begins to appear about fifteen minutes later, while Dean is gently washing the bite area, and that's when I know that I'm not going to get away with a dry bite. Even still, I'm not about to give my brother any indication that there's a problem. Dean's carried so much worry, so much responsibility, throughout his young life that I'm not about to go adding to it, if I can help it. There's still a huge possibility that the bite is a minor envenomation and will do nothing more than hurt like a mother for a while and maybe swell up a little. That doesn't necessarily mean there's anything to worry about and what Dean doesn't know about, Dean can't worry about.

**§§§§§§**

We've been back on the trail now for about a half hour and the tingling I felt a few minutes after the bite has morphed into a frickin' forest fire that's blazing away in my hand. Dean's intermittently been throwing concerned questions my way but, so far, I've been able to brush him off with irritated assurances that I'm perfectly alright. I know that anything more than a brief peek will draw Dean's attention, so I've stolen a few surreptitiously quick glances at my hand.

If Dean would happen to see the redness and bruising that are emerging around the fang marks he will most definitely take a head-long dive into anxious older brother mode. But, if the redness and bruising will make Dean anxious, I _know_ the swelling that's begun ballooning my fingers and hand will send Dean there at warp speed. Frankly, that's an effect that I would rather do without.

I know I really shouldn't be up moving around because it's just going to push whatever venom _did_ managae to get injected that much deeper and faster into my system. But what other choice do I have at this point? Without the cell phone reception, there's no way to contact anyone for help and only one way out of here, and that's to hike out. There's no way I'm going to let Dean leave me behind while he goes for help. With all of its hidden dangers, hiking alone out here is probably one of the most perilous things anyone could do. And I know Dean, he'd take every dumbass chance with his life that he could, if he thought it would get help to me any faster.

So, instead, I'm just going to keep quiet about what I've seen and the pain that's searing away in my hand and keep on hiking. With any luck we'll hike on out of these woods without Dean ever being any the wiser. Yeah, Dean will be crazy pissed when he finally finds out that I held back on him about it and I'll hear about it for days. But by that point, we'll be back to civilization and in easy reach of medical help and I can use that in my favor to quell his tirade.

**§§§§§§**

Dean's been trying really hard to sneak glances at me without me noticing, but I catch him doing it again. I know he's worried and I get it, I really do. I suppose I'd be doing the same thing if Dean was the one in my place, but this has to be the hundredth time he's done it in the past half hour and it's really beginning to wear on my nerves. It's especially beginning to irk me since the stolen glances have been accompanied by just as many nagging questions. I've told him I'm fine, why can't he just take it at face value and leave it at that? But no, he's at it again.

"Sammy, you doing alright back there? I should probably have a look at your hand."

"Deeeaan." I know I'm whining, but I hope the annoyance in my voice will quash any further investigation from my older sibling.

"Humor me, OK? It's in the Handbook of Older Brotherhood that I've got to check up on my geeky little brother."

"Handbook of Older Brotherhood, huh? And since when did you ever bother reading and studying anything other than the Playmate of the Month?"

"Hey, I have broader horizons than that. I've read the classics, too. There's Hustler, Penthouse, Celebrity Skin..."

I can't help but grin in exasperated wonder at Dean's lecherous views of what qualifies as classic literature. I'm pretty sure I can hear the rustling sounds made by the likes of Plato, Shakespeare, Bronte, Emerson, Dumas and Tolstoy as they turn over in their graves. "So why doesn't it surprise me that you find skin magazines to be intellectually inspiring classic literature? But since you asked..._again_...there's nothing to look at. I'm fine."

I pray that I'm sounding convincing. Despite Dean's snarky comments, I know he's worried like crazy and I hate the fact that I'm the cause of it...again. Before I know what I'm doing, I hear myself trying to reassure him with information that I _know_ isn't true. It's not like I _want_ to lie to him. It's just that he's my brother. I hate seeing him so stressed and the falsely reassuring words just tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Anyway, Dean, the snake that bit me was relatively small, probably a juvenile. If it did manage to squeeze in any venom, it's probably not going to be nearly as potent as the venom of a larger, full-grown adult."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: I know the chapter title might sound incredibly UN-original but I actually chose it because "Snakebite" is the title from a track on Alice Cooper's 1991 album, "Hey Stoopid". 


	3. We Gotta Get Outta This Place

**Disclaimer: **All standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **I need to apologize for being a day late posting this newest chapter. Real life has a way of biting my plans right in the persqueeter.

Also, I need to clear up some confusion regarding the last paragraph of the previous chapter (see below):

_Before I know what I'm doing, I hear myself trying to reassure him with information that I know isn't true. It's not like I want to lie to him. It's just that he's my brother. I hate seeing him so stressed and the falsely reassuring words just tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. "Anyway, Dean, the snake that bit me was relatively small, probably a juvenile. If it did manage to squeeze in any venom, it's probably not going to be nearly as potent as the venom of a larger, full-grown adult."_

The way I constructed this paragraph apparently didn't make it clear enough that Sam is **knowingly lying** to Dean about the potency of the snake's venom. In that slightly twisted, Winchester version of love, Sam is trying to protect Dean from the true reality of the situation by lying to him that the venom of young snakes is less potent than that of adults _**even though he knows that isn't true.**_ In reality, a bite from a young rattlesnake can be as much as twelve times more toxic than a bite from an adult of the same species. In addition, the bite of an adult will cause hematotoxic symptoms with a few neurotoxic side effects. The bite of a juvenile, on the other hand, will usually cause greater neurotoxic side effects then an adult, as well as the usual hematotoxic symptoms.

By the way, if any of you have been wondering about this fic's title. Crotalus is the genus name for the rattlesnake. The species name for the Western Diamondback is 'atrox', giving it the proper scientific name of 'Crotalus atrox'.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 3: We Gotta Get Outta This Place**

**Sam's POV**

I didn't think it was possible, but each minute that ticks by brings an increase in the fiery blaze that ravages my right hand and arm. I've never felt anything like it and the surging intensity of the white-hot pain has me wondering if my arm will just suddenly burst into flames or, worse yet, that it already has, leaving behind nothing but peeling strips of charred, lifeless, leathery flesh. Despite the seismic tremors of agony that sizzle up every nerve tract in my arm, the skin immediately around the bite has lost all feeling and an odd, rather nauseating metallic taste fills my mouth. The skin over the bite is tight now and has taken on a shiny appearance that's marked by a deep purple-black discoloration.

As though the worsening appearance of my hand and the gradual, but emphatic escalation of the pain wasn't enough, the quiet woodland landscape is filling with a low, reverberating roar. The barren sandstone outcroppings of the ridge top we left earlier have given way to thick forests of enormous, old-growth trees, many of them slick with emerald green moss or dotted with pearl-colored plaques of wood fungus. Visibility of the trail ahead has decreased markedly due to the lush growth and the numerous switchbacks that wind their way back and forth around the towering trees. It's just around the bend of one of these switchbacks that Dean and I now face the source of the thunderous noise that's grown louder and louder over the past few hundred yards. The crude trail we've been following has abruptly disappeared into the teeming froth of a large stream that has been swollen into a whitewater river by the recent heavy Spring rains.

With the sudden appearance of this huge obstacle in front of us, I swear the pain in my arm has jacked up a few more notches. A thousand thoughts rush through my head as I look around for some other route. When Dean pipes up, it's pretty obvious we're both working through the same problem.

"Oh, man. I think we should look around a bit, Sammy. There's bound to be a bridge somewhere to cross over."

We could waste quite a bit of time finding an alternate route and my nerves do an extra twist or two. The more time spent looking for a route over the stream, the more time that snake's venom has to do its worst. I'm finding it harder and harder to hide both my pain and my right hand from Dean's view. When I catch a glance of something jammed against an immense boulder that juts sharply from the roiling current, the realization hits that our 'oh, shit' factor has just shot through the roof. It doesn't take long to figure out that a large rough-hewn log bridge had once stood across the stream but had been swept downstream by the rushing torrent of high water. The only remaining evidence of the bridge was the section that had been battered into splintered pieces and become trapped by the irregularly-shaped boulder. Pointing with my left hand, I draw Dean's attention to the area where the demolished bridge had come to rest.

"Yeah. There _was_ a bridge, but I wouldn't count on using it now, Dean."

"Son of a...How do you suppose we get across?"

"No other choice but to look for an alternate route."

"How's the hand, Sammy?"

"What?"

I should have known Dean's concerned question was coming, especially with the high water putting a new wrinkle in our plans to simply hike on out of here, and I should have been prepared for it. But I'm working so hard at pushing the pain down, not letting Dean see just how bad things are getting, that I allowed myself to stop paying attention. God, how stupid can I be?

"Oh, uh, fine...no problems." I wince inwardly at my clumsy attempt to cover up and pray hard that Dean's too consumed in coming up with a 'Plan B' to have caught my bumbling hesitation.

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

OK, something in the way Sam's trying almost too hard to sound casual and the way he seems to purposefully be keeping his right hand out of my view is causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up. Sammy's never been a good liar and I've gotten pretty good at ferreting him out when he's trying to pull a 'shuck and jive' routine on me.

I eye Sam suspiciously and I can already see him starting to squirm. I'm not sure if I should be celebrating about that or letting that ever growing sense of anxiety that's starting to gnaw at the edges of my nerves get a foothold. On one hand, it's obvious that the little geek still can't manage to put one over on me and I'd love nothing more than to smugly rub it in like any good older brother would do. But on the other hand, if he's trying _that_ hard to keep something from me, well, most likely it's something I _need_ to know about, but probably wish I didn't. I can feel my stomach clenching into anxious knots and decide the time for a direct confrontation is long overdue. As I walk over and stand directly in front of Sam, he almost imperceptibly turns his right side away from me and I allow my suspicions and concern to spill out in the accusatory way I drag out his name.

"Saaammm,"

Sam doesn't respond and he's purposefully avoiding my gaze. Now I _know_ I'm not going to like whatever it is he's hiding and the knot in my stomach twists even tighter. _OK, Sammy, if you're going to act like a spoiled brat, I'm going to treat you like one._

"If everything's fine, then why are you hiding your hand from me?"

"I'm _not_ hiding it. Do you see me shoving my hands into my pockets, Dean? If I was hiding it, I'd be sticking my hands in my pockets, ok? So can we just get back to solving the bridge problem?"

Sammy's petulant and defiant tone was something that had always been a staple with he and Dad since Sam had hit his teens, but he rarely used with me. I need to show him I won't take any shit from him, but I've got to be careful. If I come off too much like Dad, I'll get nowhere with him and he'll be even more pissy and uncooperative.

"Well, if you're not hiding it, then let's have a look at it, Sam."

"Dean..."

"I mean it, Sam. You've been flipping me off with half-assed assurances since you got bitten."

My baby brother finally makes his fatal mistake by glancing up at me and now that I've got his gaze, I'm not about to let go of it. I fire my most challenging, no-nonsense look at him and add the verbal coup de grace.

"Please, Sam...for me."

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

_Geez, Dean! You're like a frickin' terrier. You go to ground and clamp down on something and you just won't let loose, no matter what. Can't you see that I'm just trying to protect you, like you do for me? Why do you always know when I'm trying to lie to you? For that matter, why am I so damned bad at it?_

One of these days, maybe I'll be able to pull it off, be able to slip one past Dean, but it's obviously not going to be today. As quickly as the signs of envenomation are setting in, it's just a matter of time before it'll be impossible for me to hide it and Dean's gonna figure it out anyway.

I let a defeated sigh escape and begrudgingly lift my bloated right hand into view, but not before quickly looking away from Dean's penetrating stare. The last thing I want is to see the look in Dean's eyes when the impact of this little bombshell hits him.

"You lyin' bastard!!"

_Yeah, that went well._

"How could you lie to me like that when you knew full well...?! Did you lie about the potency of the venom, too?! You did, didn't you?! You _knew _that was a dangerous bite and you lied to me! Oh, God, we've got to get you out of here...got to be something we can do to slow this."

Alright, so I was wrong. It really turns out the last thing I want is to hear the distress in Dean's voice coupled with the sight of watching him digging angrily into his pockets, pulling out the GPS unit and his cell phone, frantically checking them and then jamming them furiously back into their pockets when they failed to garner reception.

"Dean, just slow down. It's gonna be alright. From what I can tell, once we get across this stream, we're only a few miles from the ranger's station. There'll be a radio there and help will be just one easy call away. In no time, this will all be a bad, distant memory and we can sit back, laugh about it and add this to the top ten reasons why Winchester's just shouldn't go camping."

Dean's anxious hazel eyes flash over the raging waters that are cascading viciously across the trail, obliterating our path to salvation. For an instant, I can see in those eyes the soul of a frightened four year old boy; that same boy that carried me from our family's burning home, that saved me from being the second victim in an unspeakable family tragedy, and it cuts deep that, once again, I can do little to protect my big brother from the burdens he seems destined to carry.

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

I'm not really sure how long Dean's been gone but I'm starting to get concerned about him. Not only is there the possibility of Dean meeting up with more local wildlife, but in his single-minded quest to locate a passage through, over, or around the raging waterway that currently blocks our path, I know Dean will take unnecessary chances that might result in him getting hurt...or worse.

I had argued loud and long about going with Dean on a recon of the area. In the end, I lost that argument to a silly children's game and he made me stay behind and rest. Dean had spent way too many years losing Rock, Paper, Scissors so I certainly wasn't surprised when he rejected using the game as a way to settle the disagreement. Still, I thought I'd outsmarted him when I'd jumped at his suggestion of a thumb war. Ever since my growth spurt at puberty, Dean's lost every pitiful attempt he's ever made at thumb wrestling me. I suppose there _are_ benefits to having, as Dean says it, freakishly long limbs.

But it wasn't until Dean presented his hand that it dawned on me that my dominate hand, my right hand, as swollen and excruciatingly painful as it is, was far from being thumb wrestling fit. That's when I knew Dean had outfoxed me and I'd be staying behind. I hadn't taken into consideration that, where I could win every bought we fight _right_ handed, I lose every bought with the left...and this time was nothing different. Dean's smug, lop-sided smirk as he helped me settle at the base of a large redwood, my back propped against the gigantic trunk, was proof-positive that he'd planned that out from move one and I'd fallen into it hook, line and sinker.

Even though I hate it that I'm not out there watching Dean's back, I have to admit that it feels good to be taking it easy. My right arm feels as though I've dunked it into a vat of caustic acids and the intense burning is relentless in its crawl towards my shoulder. Nothing I've ever felt has hurt this badly and I'm not certain if the earnest churning that has begun stirring deep in the pit of my stomach has more to do with the pain or an effect of the venom.

Until I'd had a chance to rest, I hadn't realized just how tired I really am. Despite the cooler early Spring temperatures, I notice a smothering heat creeping over my body. Tiny beads of sweat stand out on my skin and I can feel the dawning of a major league headache coming on. It's not the sudden, white-hot headache I get before a vision, but it's still piercing enough to gnaw away at me and add to the overall fatigue that's already crashed over me. I lean my head back against the rough bark of the tree and allow my eyelids to drift closed and hope that I can shut out the pain, even for just a minute or two.

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

I swear I've been searching for an eternity for some alternate route to the ranger's station and I have yet to find any way across the swollen stream. I'd let my hopes begin to rise that I'd found a way over by carefully walking across the trunk of a large oak that had fallen over the stream. But just as the opposite shoreline was almost within reach, it became frustratingly obvious that the tree's span ended about twenty feet from the shoreline. I've already tried wading the remaining twenty feet to the shore, but the footing is so slippery and the foaming white water is rushing so viciously that it slammed me down onto the jutting rocks before I knew what was happening. The force of the blow took my breath away and it was only luck that allowed me to grab hold of one of the tree's uppermost branches and pull myself back to the safety of the downed oak before the roiling current swept me under.

So, once again, I find myself standing back on the shore from where I'd started. I've accomplished nothing, let time slip away in the process, and have nothing more to show for my troubles than a nice, ripe set of bruised ribs and a tear in the left thigh of my jeans. Judging from the sting and the crimson bloom around the frayed fabric, I've probably got a decent-sized gash on my leg, but I'm not about to waste any more time right now and decide to ignore it.

"Dammit!" I angrily jab the toe of my boot into the dirt in frustration and watch as a spray of grit shoots into the swiftly moving current of water. Although Sam is nowhere around to hear it, I swear an oath to him anyway. "I promise I'm gonna get you out of here, Sammy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm getting you out of here."

I glance at my watch and then run my hand through my hair in exasperation. Scanning the immediate area as I consider my next move, I feel a rising uncertainty. No, maybe it's better described as a sense of self-doubt. I'm starting to feel much like I did when Sammy and I went back home to Lawrence. At the time, I had felt kind of lost, not sure what I should be doing or how I could bring myself to go back into the house where my mother had died, and I'd called the one person I was certain would know what to do. But Dad's not here any longer and I have no other choices. I have no one else to fall back on and I've got to make my own decisions. The problem is, none of the decisions feel right and I don't know what to do.

For probably the hundredth time, I pull the GPS unit from my pocket and check for reception. The machine beeps to life and a few breathless moments later, dark black numerals indicating the coordinates of my location flash onto the screen. My heart skips a beat at the sudden upswing in our luck. Oh, thank God! If the GPS can find a signal, it's likely that my cell just might find one, too, and getting help for Sammy will be just a simple phone call away. I quickly dig into the other pocket of my jacket and feel jagged edges where I should be feeling the smooth, sleek outline of my cell. I pull the mangled electronics from my pocket and realize the body slam into the rocks had damaged more than just my ribs and thigh. Goodbye, good luck...hello, Winchester luck.

It's futile, but I flip the shattered cover of my cell open and press the power button, a silent prayer going out that the mutilated device will somehow still work. As if the water draining from the blasted thing and pooling in my hand isn't offensive enough, the tiny screen's refusal to give even a spark of life only adds insult to injury. I'm not sure why, but I flip the phone shut and stuff it back into my jacket. I tell myself that if I hang on to it long enough, it'll dry out and miraculously return to life. In reality, I know it's just too trashed to function, even if it hadn't been dumped in the drink.

_How could I be so God damned stupid to get us into this mess? It's no one's fault but my own that Sam got bitten. Why am I such a screw up? Why do I always let down the people that I love? I'm gonna stop it here and now, Sammy. I swear I'm not going to let you down any more. You're _not_ gonna die because I _am_ going to find a way out of here._

I check my watch one more time and notice that it's close to two hours since Sam was bitten and the snake's venom entered his system. None of my choices still seem all that great, but I've got to do something. Taking a deep breath, I make my decision and set off downstream for an additional ten minutes. If I get lucky, I'll find another route out. Then I can go back, make sure Sam is as comfortable as I can make him, leave him with water and supplies and then set off on the alternate route to get help and lead them back to Sam. If I'm not lucky...well, I just don't want to think about that.

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV **

It's hard to say how long ago I dozed off, but what I _am_ sure of is that I woke incredibly thirsty. Thankful that Dean had placed our supplies so close, I rummage through them until I find my canteen. I shove it between my legs and grip it tightly with my knees as I use my left hand to unscrew the top. Tipping the canteen high, I pull hungrily at the contents, but find only a few swallows that don't even come close to quenching my thirst.

Disappointed, my left hand falls limply at my side, the empty canteen still in my grasp. My throat is burning with an unimaginable dryness and I regret that I insisted Dean take the second canteen with him. I wonder if maybe Dean's already returned, found I was sleeping and didn't want to wake me, so I call out for him.

"Dean? Dean!"

I scan as far as I can in all directions and don't see him. I also don't get a verbal response and I know that if Dean were here, he wouldn't have ignored my call. That means only one of two things - either Dean hasn't made it back yet...or he _couldn't_ make it back. My mind starts reeling with a million scenarios of how Dean has gotten himself hurt and is stranded alone and helpless in the forest.

I shake myself from my morbid thoughts and inwardly chastise myself. I know that Dean can be a reckless pain in the ass sometimes, but Dean's also the most amazing person I know. Through the years he's gotten the both of us out of some pretty huge jams. I owe my life to him more times than I can count and, of all the people in the world, he's the only person I'd want with me when the chips are down. I refuse to start doubting him now and tell myself he's fine and will be back as soon as he can.

Despite the nap that I've gotten, I still can't shake the oppressive fatigue that's descending on me and I really don't relish a trip to go for water. I find myself wishing Dean had chosen a rest spot closer to the stream's bank. Just the thought of getting up and walking the few hundred feet to the water's edge seems exhausting. I sit for a few more minutes, but the burning in my throat wins out and I decide to make the trip to the stream.

Using my left arm, I push myself up, levering my back against the rough bark of the giant redwood that has served as my backrest. Blood continues to drip from the puncture wounds on my right hand, a few splattering the redwood's trunk, but most dripping a strange, damp pattern into the loose dirt at the tree's base. By the time I work my way to my full height and trudge to the water's edge, I'm panting like some out of shape, beer-guzzling weekend warrior instead of the hunt-hardened young man that I am.

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

I suppose, at any other time, I might have been able to appreciate the natural beauty of the water as it rushed over the seventy-five foot drop, a fine mist spraying up several feet into the air as the water cascaded onto the rocks below. But the beauty of that scene was lost to me when I realized that the only route I've found across the raging stream would require Sam and me to wade part of the way across the water downstream of a natural dam and then over the rock wall next to the falls.

The dam had been formed near the stream's bank when debris that the swiftly pounding current had carried from upstream had become lodged there. In order to reach the far shore, we'd then have to make our way down the seventy-five foot drop-off by climbing down the sheer-sided rocks beside the falls. Some exposed tree roots that stuck out from the nearly vertical wall of the far bank would double as handholds. From there, we could pick up a new trail and it would be smooth sailing to the ranger's station.

The crossing is almost a forty minute hike from where I'd left Sam and it's been bothering me that my explorations have forced me to leave him alone for far too long. I know he took care of himself when he was at Stanford, but I'm still glad that I'm nearly back to the small clearing where I left Sam to rest. And, if the truth be told, I won't mind a Tylenol or two from the first aid kit for my ribs, either.

As I approach, it's plain to see that my baby brother's no longer perched against the redwood where I'd left him. A shudder runs through me as terrible possibilities rip through my brain and my guts ripple with dread. What if Sam had become confused and wandered off into the forest? What if he got concerned because I've been gone so long and had set off on his own to look for me? Maybe some bear or coyote or cougar or something had happened upon him and dragged him off.

"Sam! Sam, where are you?"

I hear nothing in return except the sound of the rushing water nearby. If this is Sam's idea of a sick joke, I'm gonna kick his ass for giving me a heart attack.

"This isn't funny, Sam! Answer me, dammit!"

No answer comes, so I quickly survey the area around the tree for any clues as to what happened and where Sam has gone. A few droplets of blood spatter the trunk about waist high as well as the dirt at the base of the tree. A few scuffled prints from Sam's boots is still evident in the loose dirt and the supplies I left with him lay scattered haphazardly to the left of the tree.

_Not enough blood for an animal attack and the boot prints seem to indicate that Sam walked away on his own. Everything's here, all of the supplies...except the canteen_. _Holy shit! __The __stream...Sam's gone to the stream to get water. Oh, God, what if he fell in? With that arm he'll never be able to fight the violent current._

Racing for the stream, I pray that I'm completely wrong, pray that I didn't leave my brother alone to drown, pray that I'm not too late. If only I'd found a way out sooner; if only it hadn't been my fault that he was bitten in the first place.

Halfway to the stream, I spot Sam down on his knees about ten feet from the shoreline, his back hunching convulsively, and it's clear why he wasn't answering me. I close the remaining distance and crouch at my brother's side. I'm unable to do little more than gently rub my hand up and down his back as Sam's violent retching comes to an end, the contents of his stomach forming a pool of acrid liquid on the ground in front of him.

**§§§§§§**

The repeated violent episodes of dry heaves had really taken their toll on Sam. The breaks during our hike to the crossing had grown longer and longer, but the restorative effects on Sam seemed to lessen with each one. Sam had been pouring everything he had into keeping a good pace but even though he did his best to hide it, he was reaching about as deeply as he could. That was when I decided I needed to keep Sam close.

But as I stand in the chest-deep water frantically searching the surface for any sign of my little brother, I realize that I hadn't kept him close enough. In the instant that I heard Sam's sudden, strangled gasp he disappeared below the churning current, my hands groping wildly for any hold of him I could get but coming up hopelessly empty. It all happened so fast it was almost as though Sam was one of the apparitions we hunt...here one second and gone the next.

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

For Dean, it had been a forty minute hike downstream but, with me, the return hike grew into a trek of nearly an hour and fifteen minutes. Intermittent bouts of dry heaves slowly robbed me of my energy and left me feeling lightheaded. Dean didn't said a word about it, even when I stumbled awkwardly into him, but the amount of time it has taken for us to get to this crossing has weighed heavily on him.

Resting here at the crossing's edge, I can't remember ever feeling this run-down after a hike. Dean thinks he's doing a good job of covering up and, for anyone else, he would be. But I'm no longer the chubby little kid that innocently takes everything at face value and I see the twitchy jumping of Dean's leg as he sits nearby and can hear the very faint, but distinctive, hummed strains of Metallica. Dean doesn't even realize he's doing it, but it's one of his non-verbals that broadcasts his anxiety loud and clear.

I can't sit and rest here forever, though, and from somewhere deep inside I'm able to muster enough energy to push myself to my feet. Once I'm back on my feet, lightheadedness sweeps over me again and Dean must know it too because I feel his steadying hand on my left elbow.

No words pass between us as we step into the water and start our journey across the stream. Dean is in the lead, carefully picking his way across, certain that each step is secure before allowing me to follow. The water's depth and speed is minimal here due to the damming effect of the debris from upstream and we're making good time.

When Dean reaches the end of the dam, I notice that the water, now to his chest, is bubbling and churning angrily around him. We're almost to the falls, the halfway point, and the thought of resting again on the opposite bank pushes me forward.

The icy slap of the chest deep water sends unexpected flashes of white-hot electricity sizzling up my right arm and, before I can take a breath, I've plunged below the surface, my feet unable to maintain a purchase on the silt-slickened rocks of the streambed. The current grabs hold and catapults me into a disorienting sequence of dizzying somersaults that leave me unsure of which way is up. Strangely, it runs through my mind that this must be what it feels like to be some hapless animal in the jaws of a crocodile as it executes its cunningly effective 'death roll'.

Suddenly, I'm rocketed upwards, breaching the surface only long enough for a short half-breath before I'm violently jerked back under and tossed like some life-sized rag doll. The more I fight for the surface the more my lungs burn for air and the more it seems the current rolls and bounces me, scraping me across the rocks and debris that litter the streambed.

In the back of my mind, I realize that the current is pulling me quickly towards a plunge from the falls and I know I should be frightened, but I'm not. A strange peacefulness has descended over me and I feel a need to stop fighting. The pain, the uncertainty and the heart-wrenching tragedy that seem to haunt my every living moment would come to an end, if only I allowed myself to let go and slip quietly into oblivion.

Dean flashes into my head. I really don't want to leave him and I know he'll grieve, but he's strong and I know he'll find it somewhere in himself to push on. I think about all of the people waiting for me - Mom, Jess, Dad, Pastor Jim and Caleb - and a protective warmth passes through me. For the first time in hours, I no longer feel the excrutiating pain in my arm. The temptation is just too great and my body is just too tired to struggle any longer. My body relaxes, no longer battling to find the surface, and I release myself to whatever fate awaits me.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "We Gotta Get Outta This Place" is a song from 'The Animals' 1965 album, "Animal Tracks". Another 'Animals' track, "The House of the Rising Sun", is heard on the Supernatural Season 2 episode, "Roadkill" . 


	4. Hold Your Head Up, Hold Your Head High

**Disclaimer: **As with all of my stories, this one is completely un-beta'd so any goofs, flubs or other WTF's are mine and only mine. I strive for a high degree of medical accuracy but reserve the right to "fudge" things a bit if it will add to the story in other ways, most notably - angst.

**A/N: **My apologies for not posting until Wednesday. My only excuse is that computers are a bitch...especially when they crash and take your next chapter with them. I only hope this re-write is as polished and entertaining as the original.

**The Road So Far: **An argument and childish act on Dean's part result in Sam suffering the bite of a Western Diamondback rattlesnake. Although Sam tries desperately to hide it, Dean finds out and sets out on his own to find another route across the swollen stream when the bridge is knocked out by heavy Spring rains. As the boys attempt the dangerous crossing, Sam plunges below the surface of the raging water and disappears.

* * *

_And if it's bad,_

_Don't let it get you down, you can take it_

_And if it hurts, _

_Don't let them see you cry, you can take it._

Argent - "Hold Your Head Up"

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 4: Hold Your Head Up, Hold Your Head High**

**Dean's POV**

"Sammy!" _Oh, God...oh, God. I've got to find him. Please, I've lost everything...I can't lose him, too._

About twenty feet downstream from where I last saw Sam, a flash of something dark briefly breaches the surface of the turbulent water. It appeared, and then was gone so quickly, that I can't be certain if it was Sam or just some debris caught by the water's mad tumble down the mountainside. But I'm not about to let slip through my fingers, what may be my only chance at saving my brother. Without really even thinking, the visceral emotion pushes me, kicking and plunging desperately into the swirling current beyond the dam.

I catch brief glimpses of Sam as we bob and skip through the frenzied undulation of the rapids. Sam's arms and legs thrash furiously to stay above the surface as the whitecaps fold over and crash down, rolling and pushing him dizzingly deeper into each well.

My arms and legs burn with exertion and my lungs feel ready to pop when I realize that Sammy's no longer fighting to stay above the foaming surface. The sight of my little brother, face down, limbs tossed limply with the wild, turbulent tide, unleashes an adrenalized surge of energy. With one last desperate lunge, my fingers close on the hem of Sam's sodden shirt. Pulling with everything I have left, I wrestle Sam close, rolling him to his back and struggling to keep us both above the raging water.

I can't tell if Sam's breathing and his head lolls flaccidly against my shoulder. His eyes are closed, the long dark lashes standing out starkly against the paleness of his skin. _No! No, no, no, no, no! _I scream his name, but the only answer I hear is the evil hiss made by the stream's plunge over the nearing falls.

The force of the current cruelly attempts to rip my baby brother's lifeless form from my grip and I jostle him roughly as I readjust and strengthen my hold. Sam begins to cough harshly and I push and scrabble as hard as possible against the rocks and other debris that litter the streambed. The cumbersome weight of Sam's semiconscious body and the force of the current work against us as we battle towards the stream's edge. It's as though we take two steps towards our goal, only to have Mother Nature laughingly push us eight steps back.

There's a sudden, jarring thrust that drags us helplessly into the screaming vortex that swirls just above the falls. Instinctively, I wrap my arms even more tightly around Sam. If we're doomed to go over the falls, then it's a trip we'll take together because I'm not letting go until someone pries my cold, dead fingers from around my little brother.

In that momentary feeling of weightlessness as we begin the descent, I judge the first drop to be about twenty feet. It's strange the images and thoughts that buzz incongruously through your brain at the most inappropriate times, but my mind flashes to those old cartoons of Wile E. Coyote as he's temporarily suspended in mid-air, only to find his world suddenly dropping out from underneath him seconds later.

My mind is jolted back to the present by the abrupt 'crack' of the water as we slam through it's surface to the churning basin at the foot of the first drop. It seems like an eternity until we're viciously jettisoned back to the surface and I can only hope that Sam had been conscious enough to take a deep breath before we went under.

Seconds later, the current spews us over what should have been an unimpressive and easy ten foot drop. A large sandstone boulder had been polished smooth by the years of cascading water and when we slam painfully into the shallows that barely cover it, my grip on Sam is violently wrenched free and we tumble haphazardly down the pitch of the stone's face.

Sam splashes into the white water at the wall's base only a foot or so from me. But when I grab for him, the violently bubbling current jerks my jacket up over my head and twists it awkwardly around my arms. By the time I can struggle free from the tangled jacket, my baby brother has already been catapulted well beyond my reach.

When we slip over the largest of the falls and shatter the angry looking surface, a sharp flare of pain erupts in my right ankle and I gasp involuntarily. Moments later I'm hurled free, coughing and sputtering at the water's attempted intrusion into my lungs, and search for any sight of Sam.

I spot him ten yards downstream on his left side, his legs still in the water and his body curled into a loose fetal position on the silty slope of the stream's edge.

"Sam! Sammy!"

He makes no attempt to stir and it terrifies me. I try to ignore the firestorm in my ankle as I slog through the shallow water to reach him, my hurried and clumsy strides tossing watery sprays of tiny silver orbs ahead of me.

I stumble to my knees several times before I reach Sam's side and roughly pull him onto his back. Sam doesn't respond when I call his name and brush the tousled hanks of wet, chestnut-colored hair from his face, leaving streaks of muddy desperation in their place. I wrap my left arm around his shoulders and pull him into a half-sitting position, leaning an ear close to his colorless lips. I pray that I'll hear the soft sounds of breathing or feel a gentle puff of air on my cheek, but I don't.

Pushing an errant shock of hair back, I allow the fingers of my right hand to run over Sam's shaggy mop, the deep cowlick I remember from his childhood forming as my fingers rake through the wet hair. I squeeze my brother into my chest and shake him roughly.

"Don't you fucking leave me here alone! You hear me, Sam?! It's not supposed to end like this! Now, breathe, God damn it!"

I think I feel a tremor course through Sam and I roll him away from my chest, wondering if it was really true or if I was imagining it. I brush Sam's hair back again and lightly pat at his cheek. A weak cough is followed quickly be several stronger ones and I laugh with relief and pull Sam in a little closer. The grating, raspy gasps of air that fill Sam's lungs are the best sounds I think I've ever heard and it's then that I realize that both Sam _and_ I are breathing again.

"That's it Sam, just breathe. Come on...in, out...that's it."

Sam coughs harshly several more times before his breathing evens out and his eyes flutter open lazily. I keep up my encouragement until I see the glassy haze disappear from his eyes and he's finally able to focus again.

"Sammy? You alright? How do you feel?"

"Like...like I've (cough, cough)...been...been through...(cough) the spin cycle."

I can't help but laugh at Sam's description. Who else would pull parallels between drowning and a mundane household chore like doing the wash?

"I hate to tell you this, Bro, but I think that description just proves my point on how much of girl you've become."

"Well... at least...I _do..._my wash."

"Just because I'm not the Maytag Man doesn't mean I don't know how to do my wash. It just means that I'm smart enough to make you my bitch and have _you_ do it."

"You wouldn't know the permanent press cycle if it bit you on the ass, Dean."

"Maybe...but I know what your cycle is - Delicate. Now come on, Snuggles, it's not doing either one of us any good sitting in this cold water."

I push myself to a standing position and am about ready to extend my hand to help Sam up when a horrible realization overcomes me.

"Aww, shit!!!"

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

Dean seems agitated and Dean doesn't _do_ agitated...unless he's got a good reason. From my spot half-lying and half-sitting on the bank, I can see him limping angrily back and forth in the shallow water, his hands alternately held out wide and then slapped disgustedly to his thighs in aggravation. I hear the low buzz of him muttering to himself, but all I catch is an occasional obscenity.

At this point, I'd like nothing more than to sleep away the fire that still rages out of control in my right arm, but seeing Dean this distressed has me worried. I feel like I've inhaled a couple gallons of the stream's fetid water and, although I'm still wracked by coughing fits, I've got to find out what has Dean so worked up.

"Talk to me, Dean. What's (cough, cough) wrong?"

Dean only continues his pacing, his arms still flailing wildly in irritation, a heavy limp punctuating each step.

"Dean, stop it. Tell me what's wrong!"

Dean seems not to hear as he continues his pointless trek back and forth. He stops only long enough to look out over the stream with his hands on his hips, before once again throwing his hands up in annoyance and muttering under his breath.

"Dean! (Cough, cough, cough, cough)."

That did it. Dean abruptly pulls up and turns towards me and, as the coughing dies down, I take the opportunity to repeat myself.

"What's wrong?"

Dean doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks downstream; a look, equally apologetic and annoyed, spreading across his face. As I wait for his reply, I find myself absently wondering just how he does that; how he somehow wraps two completely contradictory emotions into one expression.

Dean scrubs a burly hand over his face and then roughly through his spiky hair, sending droplets of water flying in all directions.

"It's gone, Sammy. All of it. Everything's gone."

"What's gone, Dean? I'm not getting you."

"Our packs, the first aid kit, the G.P.S., everything. I tried, I really did, but I couldn't hold onto the packs and the G.P.S. was in my jacket...wherever the hell _it_ is now."

I know I shouldn't, but it's just so ludicrous that I can't help myself. I bust out laughing so hard that I quickly feel tears streaming down my cheeks. Dean's face colors an unnatural shade of crimson and, stepping directly in front of me, he takes on a defensive posture.

"You think that's funny?"

"Only you, Dean...only you would get washed down a whitewater rapids, get tossed over not one, but _three_ frickin' Niagara Falls, and nearly drown saving someone else's life and still be mad at himself for losing hold of the gear."

"Yeah, well, you won't think it's so funny, Einstein, when you smarten up to the fact that we have no idea how far off-course we've been pushed, we don't have the faintest idea which direction the ranger's station is now and the G.P.S. , the one thing that could tell us all of that, is gone."

To punctuate his last point, Dean shoves a stubby finger into my chest. The sudden, jerky movement sends a blitz of white-hot pain racing up my right arm, over my shoulder and bursting into my head. A fireworks of rapidly twinkling golden lights dance across my vision as I squeeze them tightly shut against the pain and try to keep from passing out.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam. I'm so sorry. You OK, man?"

I can't trust my voice...or my stomach...right now so I just keep my eyes closed and nod quietly. When I'm finally able to open my eyes again, I'm met with my big brother's guilt-ridden and worried face. Dean's fretting about me even more now and it's written all over him.

"Dean, it's not your fault. Even Dad couldn't have held onto our gear through all of that. We're gonna get out of here and everything's gonna be OK. I promise. I trust you, Dean, and I know you can get us out of here."

" 'Cause I've been doing such a bang up job up until now. If it hadn't been for me we wouldn't be..."

I can still hear Dean's continued self-deprecating comments, but I'm really not paying attention. My mind is already elsewhere; already whirring with an idea that might literally point us in the right direction.

"...but here we are, God only knows where, and have no id-..."

"Dean?"

"...-ea which direction we sh-..."

"Hey, Dean, you still keep that paper clip tucked in your sock?"

"Huh?"

"That paper clip...the one you've kept in your sock since you pulled it from Dad's journal and used it to bust out of the cuffs at the police station in Jericho...you still have it?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just get it, OK?"

Dean flashes me a perplexed look but settles on the bank next to me and unties the laces of his left boot. He pulls roughly at it and it wrenches off with a loud sucking sound; a noisy testimony to just how water-logged Dean's socks remain. Then, with a quick roll of his sock, Dean produces the paper clip that's responsible for breaking him out of police custody so frequently that he's become a fugitive more infamous than Richard Kimble, himself.

"You were limping. You alright?"

"What? Oh. Yeah, no big deal. Just twisted my ankle. Going over that last waterfall was a real bitch."

Dean flashes me a smirk and I've got to snort out a half-chuckle. Dean has always had a complete and utterly amazing gift for understating the obvious.

Dean proudly displays the paperclip, holding it up between his index and middle fingers.

"What'd you want it for?"

"I can't use my right hand, so you're gonna have to do this for me. I need you to find a small twig and a spot in the stream where the water's very still."

I half expect Dean to argue, but he wordlessly pushes his saturated boot back on and gets up. He snaps a small twig, no bigger around than a pencil, from a nearby sapling and then hobbles a yard or so downstream before he stops.

"There's a deep puddle here, next to the stream. Will that do?"

"Sounds good, Dean. Now break the twig off so it's short enough to easily float freely in the puddle without getting hung up."

Dean eyeballs the twig and a few quick snaps later he's holding it up for my inspection.

"OK, now what?"

"Straighten the paperclip out and rub it briskly on a dry spot on your pants. That'll excite a static electric charge in the metal."

Dean's eyebrow shoots up, a sure sign of an impending 'Dean-ism'.

"Excite?"

My arm is killing me, I'm tired as hell and I can feel the bile once again creeping up my throat. My patience is running rather short so I'm in no mood to deal with Dean's libido, a fact that's vividly reflected in my irritated tone.

"Excite as in 'produce', not...not...horny. Can we just focus, here?"

"Ok, ok. Whatever you say, MacGyver."

Dean finally follows my instructions and straightens out the paperclip. Without another comment, he rubs it quickly on the leg of his jeans.

"Alright, that's good. Now stick one end of the paperclip into the end of the twig and then gently float the whole thing in the middle of the puddle."

Dean hunches over the small pool of water and tenderly places the twig on its placid surface. Silent moments pass before I hear Dean's excited voice.

"It's turning!"

"Good...good."

Exhausted, I allow my head to lay back and let my eyes slip shut in fatigue. Thank God _something's _going right because I'm really starting to feel like crap. Without even opening my eyes, I whisper out to my brother.

"Congratulations, Dean. You've just made yourself a compass. When it stops rotating, it'll be pointing to magnetic North."

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV **

Sam really shocked the hell out of me with that water-compass-thing he made. When the outline of the ranger's cabin pulls from the deep shadows of the dense forest, I couldn't be more thankful for Sam's resourcefulness. Sammy's done everything he can to cowboy up, but I'm not sure how much more of this he can take and he's got to rest. His strength seemed to deteriorate dramatically after our 'log-jammer' ride down the rapids. It's deteriorated so much so that I found myself half-carrying him the last mile to the cabin's door where he's folded into a legless heap.

I pound heavily on the door but get no response. A quick jiggle of the doorknob proves it to be locked and I curse the loss of our bags and the lock picking equipment in them. Then again, who needs to pick the damned lock, anyway, when I can just as easily kick the door in?

It takes two kicks before I hear the door's frame cracking under the punishment and a third before the door flies wide, banging loudly as it bounces against the interior wall. I push my way inside, hopes high, and scramble to find a cell phone, land line, radio...anything that'll get help for my little brother.

One wall of the tiny cabin is lined with several floor to ceiling cupboards and a three-drawer, metal cabinet rife with parasitic blotches of rust blossoming on its dull, gray surface. Gracing the opposite wall is a six-pane, dirt-encrusted window where a small emergency radio station sits atop a rustic table with two chairs positioned underneath. A mountain stone-hearth fireplace looms large on the longest wall, an uncomfortable looking wood and canvas cot placed almost directly in front.

I start excitedly towards the radio but soon realize that it's been left little more than a pitifully charred skeleton of its previous self. The dark fingers of soot on the cabin wall above the table are evidence that the radio's roof-mounted antenna must have taken a direct hit of lightning during the recent storms. The lightning's awesome power had literally fried the radio's delicate electronics.

"God dammit!"

I swipe an angry hand at the shattered radio, sending chunks of the demolished device skittering loudly across the cabin's wooden floor.

"D-De...?"

_Sammy. Oh, God. I'm so sorry._ In my rush to find a radio and my subsequent anger at its condition, I'd forgotten that I'd left Sam slumped at the cabin's entrance. Unless something has changed drastically, there's no way Sammy's getting up and into the cabin on his own and I rush back out to him.

Sam is so exhausted that he hasn't moved from the position he'd collapsed into against the cabin's doorframe. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, pain etching deep lines into his face. I touch him gently and softly let him know it's time to move.

"Come on, Sammy. Let's get you inside. There's a cot where you can lay down."

I hook his left arm over my shoulders and then slip my right arm around his waist. I count to three and Sam makes a concerted effort to get to his feet, but he's too weak to muster enough energy and I lift him the rest of the way. Once on his feet, he sways dangerously until he leans most of his weight into me and we shuffle slowly into the small cabin. Although he hasn't admitted to it, the bitten off hisses and low moans testify to just how much pain Sam's enduring.

I help Sam to sit on the fold-out cot and, despite the fact that our once water-soaked clothing has long since dried, I notice that he's pale and shivering violently. The dip in the icy water of the stream and then the exposure to the cool Spring air has brought on the uncontrollable tremors that are his body's instinctive effort to keep warm. The slight rosy-blue tinge the cold has colored his lips is unnerving and pushes me to action.

I rummage quickly through the first cupboard and find a small stack of slightly musty smelling, olive-colored wool blankets that appear suspiciously like surplus military gear. At this point, I don't care where they came from, just that they'll be helpful in warming Sammy a bit until I can get a fire going.

"Easy does it, Sam. That's it. Just sit on the edge for me, Ok?"

After untying and slipping off Sam's boots, I help him to lie gently back onto the cot and give the rather anemic pillow a few plumping pats to make it more comfortable. I spread two wool blankets over top of Sam's still-shivering form and tuck them in as tightly as I can before heading for the door.

"Be right back, Sammy. Gonna get some stuff to warm you up."

Around the side of the cabin I find a haphazardly stacked pile of wood and grab a few split logs from its top. Before returning inside, I also retrieve a large, flat stone I found lying a short distance from the wood pile.

Stepping through the cabin's door, I'm surprised to see Sam once again sitting up and swaying dizzily on the cot's edge. I toss down the supplies I'd gathered and rush to Sam's side.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Seconds later, Sam pitches heavily into my shoulder. Sweat trickles down his cheeks and his breaths are coming in small gasps that are interrupted by thick swallows. I've nursed Sam through years of stomach bugs and the occasional bout of roadside diner food poisoning and I recognize all of his signs.

"You gonna be sick again?"

I feel a faint, silent nod against my shoulder and, not moving away from Sam, I reach out and grab a nearby waste can. I barely have it under him before his stomach rebels. The painful spasms elicit nothing more than a few thick strings of yellow-green bile but it's still several minutes before his body realizes he has nothing more to give and the heaving ends.

After helping Sam to lay back once again, I set the can aside, making sure it's still within arm's reach should Sam get sick again. Only then do I gather up the firewood and stone I'd left, forgotten by the doorway.

When I turn back around I notice Sam rubbing at his red-rimmed eyes. It doesn't take a genius to know Sam's pain is becoming too much for him, and yet he still doesn't want me to see him crying. Pretending not to notice, I go instead to the fireplace. There, I coax the few matches I've found into finally giving birth to an embryonic glow. As I urge the embers into a respectable fire, I silently vow that the moment I'm done placing the flat stone on the hearth to warm, I'll go in search of something...anything...to dull Sam's agony.

A fevered search of the cabin's remaining untouched cabinets reveals only three bottles of spring water and a pitifully basic first aid kit with a square or two of gauze, some tape, a partially depleted sheet of butterfly closures and a few sample packets of Extra-Strength Tylenol. In this moment, I'm kicking myself even more for losing our more advanced first aid kit. The few doses of Morphine we had in the kit would have gone a hell of a way to relieving Sam's agony.

Sammy's occasional whimpers and restless shifting remind me just how much pain he's in and I start hatching a plan. Having nothing else, I'm just going to have to make the Tylenol suffice. If we're lucky, my scheme will grant Sam enough relief to get a little much needed sleep _and_ stretch the few Tylenol tablets as far as possible. I extricate one tablet from its foil packet and carefully fold it over to protect the remaining pill.

When I return to the cot with my prizes, Sam's eyes are squeezed tightly shut, a single tear tracing lazily down his left cheek. The muscles in his jaw are clenched so fiercely that I swear I can hear the enamel being ground right off his teeth and half expect to hear his jawbone snap.

"I know it's gonna hurt to move, Sammy, but we've got to sit you up again. I found some Morphine tablets in the emergency cupboard. We need to get it in you; get you some pain relief."

Ok, so I lied to him; told Sam the pills are Morphine when they're not. But it's not like he didn't lie to me first. Hell, I know giving him Tylenol for his level of pain is like trying to drain the ocean with a teaspoon. But, if Sam _believes_ they're going to work, they just might. That's why I follow the first lie up with yet another.

"I can only give you one, Sam, 'cause the dose on these is so high. Don't want someone thinking my kid brother's a user, you know?"

Sam forces a smile and a half-hearted chuckle at my lame joke. I can tell the whole thing's forced because, when Sammy's really smiling, his eyes shimmer with an incredible intensity I've never seen in anyone else. It's as though his eyes give an all too brief glimpse of the unadulterated purity and innocence of the little boy that the years of injuries, crappy motels, bad meals and disappointments have buried. But the smile he's giving me now doesn't even come close to lighting his eyes. All I see in them is the swirling murkiness of pain and uncertainty.

I help Sam to lift his head enough that he can safely wash the one Tylenol down with a few swigs of the bottled water. He settles back down on the cot, a whimper slipping out as his arm is jostled slightly with the movement. A shiver courses through him and I tuck the blankets as closely around Sam as I can and try to reinforce my 'mind over pain' placebo plan.

"You stay put now, Sam. That dose of Morphine's bound to have quite a kick to it and will likely knock you on your ass. The last thing you need right now is to fall. I'm gonna make another sweep of the cabin – make sure I didn't miss any supplies we can use."

**§§§§§§**

**20 minutes later:**

I had hoped my subterfuge in telling Sam that the Tylenol was Morphine would have seen an evening out of Sam's breathing and a quieting of his troubled stirring. But as I sit here at the small table, my swollen right ankle propped gingerly on the other chair, I know the ruse isn't working. Sam's half-smothered moans and harsh gasps continue to mark the passing of each heartbreaking minute. What's worse is that I can't get away from the fact that this whole fucked up mess is my fault.

"D-ean…"

My little brother's strained voice pulls me out of my self-loathing thoughts and I go to his side.

"I'm here, Sammy."

Sam's left hand grabs my wrist in a vice-like grip and it's clear that he's upset. His breaths hitch and his words tumble out in an untamed stampede of emotion.

"I've tried, Dean…I really have…but I…I…I can't…I can't do it any more…My whole arm...It feels like it's on fire…and the Morphine's n-not w-working…Please, Dean…Please make it stop."

I feel as though I've been kicked in the gut and the room suddenly feels as though it doesn't have enough air in it. I've witnessed Sam injured and in pain many times before, but what I've never seen is him _begging_ for it to stop. For him to break down like this, the pain must be beyond excruciating.

I've got to do something. The question is what _can _I do? With no way to contact help and no decent medicines, there's not a blessed thing I can do but keep up the charade; keep trying to convince Sam that the Tylenol is something it's not.

"Sammy…shhh, shhhh. It's OK."

Sam's eyes are wide and pleading, tears continuing to slip silently down his cheeks.

"I'm sorry, Dean…. I'm so sorry…. But…_aaghhh_...God!"

"Easy, Sam, it's OK. Look, I know you're in a lot of pain, I do, but it's too soon. I can't give you another dose yet. Those pills are just too strong."

Sam's head droops back to his pillow and his eyes squint tightly shut, sending a fresh flood of salty tears washing across his milk-pale skin and shoving what feels like a dagger straight into my heart. I only seem to be adding to Sam's misery and the thought of it is killing me. I've _got_ to convince Sam; make him truly believe the useless pills are going to work.

"Alright, Sam. It's against my better judgment, but alright, I'll give you some more Morphine."

I pause briefly, but then quickly add, "But I'm only giving you half a tablet. I told you before, this dose kicks like a mule."

I stand and walk the short distance to the counter top where I'd tossed the Tylenol packets. As I unfold the rolled-over foil packet and carefully break the remaining tablet in half, my hands are shaking. Everything about my deception depends on trust...Sam's trust. If this strategy is going to work, my body language and my actions can't allow even the slightest glimmer of doubt to creep into Sam's head.

With my back still facing my baby brother, I take an extra moment to still the tremors in my hands, settle my nerves and gather myself for what I hope will be the best performance of my lifetime. One deep breath and I turn around, trying to look confident as I walk back to Sam's bedside.

"Here, let me help you."

I assist Sam to push up far enough again to swallow the additional Tylenol and then tuck him back under the covers.

"But I'm telling you, this is it for now, dude. We're one step away from overdosing you as it is."

I pull one of the chairs over next to Sam's cot and settle into it with a tired sigh. I dig the heels of my hands roughly into my eyes then, leaning my head back, end with a brisk scrub of my hands through my hair.

"You...should get...some...sleep, Dean."

Sam's voice snaps me back from my brief brush with letting my worries and exhaustion show and slams home the reality that I almost screwed things up...again.

"Can't, Sammy. You've been vomiting...and with a combined dose of Morphine _that_ size sloshing around in your system, I've got to make sure you're not going to go all Jimi Hendrix on me. We both know you're a lightweight when it comes to handling drugs or alcohol."

Sam's previously pained facial expression turns indignant and his dull eyes briefly flash with annoyance.

"I am _not_. I drink...and I handled the Demerol Dad gave me just fine...after I shattered my leg in that mine...hunting that damn prospector's ghost."

"Oh, yeah, you handled it just fine. That's why you sang the 'Gilligan's Island' theme song continuously for _hours _afterwards. I begged Dad to let me gag you...or at least drown you out with some Zepplin. Yeah, you handled the drugs _so_ well. A real Keith Moon, you are, Sammy...a real Keith Moon."

"Gi' me a break, Dea'. I was jus' a li'l kid."

"Dude, you were almost eighteen."

I can't help but hear the subtle beginnings of slurring in Sammy's speech and a glimmer of hope takes hold that maybe, just maybe, I've been convincing enough that the placebo ploy is working. Still, I worry that his continued shivering is keeping him awake and preventing him from getting the relief he needs.

I push up from my chair and gently stoke the fire. Before turning back to Sam, I gingerly touch my hand to the flat stone I'd dragged in earlier and laid on the brick hearth. Pulling down the cabin's somewhat tattered curtains, I fold them into a pot-holder of sorts and use it to protect my hands as I return to Sam's cot with the fire-roasted stone.

Sam's eyes have been following my movements, but I take note that he's blinking in that slow, owlish way that hints that the "Morphine" is taking hold.

"Wha's tha'?"

Pulling the covers back from the end of the cot, I carefully place the heated stone on the cot below Sam's feet, making certain to arrange the dilapidated curtain to assure Sam won't get burned, and then pull the blankets back down to cover both Sam and the stone. "That, Sammy, is a Stone Age-style electric blanket."

"Mmmmm…warm. Tha's niizz."

Sam's finally giving in and his eyelids droop heavily in response. I actually heave a sigh of relief as his eyes fall closed and I hear the softly slurred strains of a familiar song.

"Juz'it righ' back an' you'll hear a tale…a tale of a fa'ful trip, tha' star'ed from thi' s'tropic port…."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: The chapter title comes from the refrain of the 1972 Argent classic, "Hold Your Head Up". I thought it reflected very well Sammy's struggles, not only to keep his head above water, but to fight past his pain. 


	5. Haven't We Lost Enough?

**Disclaimer: **Pure fun, no profit. No claims to Supernatural are being made and no infringement is intended.

**A/N: **I'd like to thank everyone for their unbelievable response to the previous chapter. I've tried to reply to everyone but, fearing that I've missed a few of you, I just want to thank everyone so, SO much for their support...especially the support you've shown for the unusual construction of this fic.

**From the previous chapter: **Sam's condition has continued to worsen. Progressively weaker, Sam's unable to go on and the boys are forced to take shelter in the ranger's cabin. Dean's hopes are dashed when he finds their only form of communication with the outside world has been destroyed by a lightning strike and the cabin's supplies are pitifully insufficient. Without any other means of lessening his pain, Dean lies to Sam, telling him the virtually useless Tylenol tablets are actually Morphine, all the while hoping Sam doesn't catch on.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 5: Haven't We Lost Enough?**

**Dean's POV**

After Sam had finally given into his much needed "Morphine"-induced slumber, I had practically torn the cabin apart doing yet another search; lifting things up, pushing them aside, turning things over and scouring every nook and cranny I could find. Despite the frenzied effort, the cabin had still refused to yield anything further that would be of real use and I settled anxiously into the uncomfortable wooden chair next to Sam's cot. My head had buzzed with frightening thoughts of how we were wasting precious minutes sitting in this cabin, while my heart knew Sam had been at the end of his endurance and couldn't go on no matter how much he wanted to. In the end, I could do nothing more than sit at Sam's side, obsessing over our plight and watching as the pain-filled creases melted from Sam's face.

I'd intended to let Sam get a little rest and then head out again as soon as he was possibly able. I'd certainly never intended to nod off. But somewhere along the way, exhaustion must have overtaken me, as well, because I've just suddenly come awake with a jolt.

I can't identify what woke me. It's not something I can see or smell or hear; nothing tangible like a sulfur scent or cold spot or even an apparition. Instead, it's more something that I sense, but can't quite put my finger on. The cabin is quiet and Sam's still sleeping peacefully, his breathing soft and even. Carefully, trying not to wake him, I gently touch my hand to Sam's forehead. Although he seems to have a slight temperature, the lack of a raging fever is somewhat reassuring.

Still, I can't shake this foreboding feeling. It's the kind of feeling that knots the pit of your stomach and sends an icy chill prickling up your spine. I chuckle nervously at my case of the jitters and push the uneasiness to the back of my mind. _OK, Dean, prepared is good. Paranoid is just, well… paranoid. Now's not the time to short circuit. Sammy needs you with your head still screwed on straight and thinking. Going mental and losing it isn't gonna help matters._

I chuckle again for briefly weirding myself out and, knowing that we can't afford to waste any more daylight, I start gathering the meager supplies we found. I snatch up the remaining bottled water and the last few Tylenol tablets while I let Sam sleep a bit longer, and then turn my attention to the hearth, making certain to completely snuff out the fire.

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

I hear Dean's sudden, small gasp as he jerks awake in his chair and then feel the light touch of his hand on my forehead. I want to make sure he's OK, but my eyelids are still so heavy that I can't seem to lift them. Several minutes tick by before I can clear the fog that's wrapped itself around my brain and gain enough control to get my eyelids to flutter open.

"Dean?"

I don't get a response nor does he even turn around.

"Dean, you alright?"

Dean jumps slightly and turns from the fire, a distracted yet somewhat surprised look on his face. "Huh? Hey, I didn't know you were awake."

"So I gathered. You 'kay?" I shift in bed in order to see Dean better and try unsuccessfully to bite back a wince. Worry and concern flashes across Dean's face.

"Yeah, just making sure the fire is doused before we head out. How're you feeling?"

I have no idea how long I've slept, but every muscle in my body feels as though they've stiffened and a huge Charlie horse has knotted its way into my left calf. I still feel extremely weak, but the rest I've gotten has helped to wash away the paralyzing exhaustion of earlier. Other than the weakness and a Morphine-blunted buzz of pain in my arm, I'm beginning to wonder if our luck has changed; that the bite isn't as bad as we thought. Maybe, just maybe, we've been able to ride out the worst of the venom's effects.

"We have any more of that water, Dean? I've got a killer case of 'cotton mouth'."

As Dean grabs the water bottle, I try to struggle my way out from under the covers. As I sit upright, an earnest trickle of warmth washes from my nose and down my face, splattering fat drops of carmine red on my shirt and pants while scorching hot bolts of pain rocket up my entire right arm, mushroom over my shoulder and burn their way down my right rib cage.

"Nnnnnnnnnggggghhhhhhhh!"

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

Sam's pain-filled cry makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. And, somehow, I know that _this_ is what my creepy sensation has been all about. I search Sam's face for signs that everything's OK and feel my own stomach lurch abruptly when, for the first time since he was bitten, I see not only pain, but _fear_ flickering in Sam's eyes.

Sam is sitting with his legs slung over the cot's side, beads of sweat springing instantly to his forehead and blood flowing from his nose. He holds his left hand to his face but the blood flows through his fingers and continues to drip. Some drops trace a jagged trail towards the elbow of his raised left forearm, still others drip to the cabin floor. Tearing the pillowcase from Sam's pillow, I hastily wad the material and hold it to my baby brother's face until his bloodstained left hand closes over it, pressing it snuggly to his bleeding nose.

Only then do I get my first real look at Sam's condition since he'd awakened. The large purple-black blister that had previously formed only over the bite has now spread to include his entire palm. The skin is so stretched and taut that it's taken on a shiny appearance. In fact, Sam's hand has ballooned to the point that his knuckles have disappeared below the puffy flesh and his fingers are so swollen I can no longer see the joints.

Large areas of bruising in various shades of rose, indigo, scarlet and deep violet dot the length of his right arm and provide a vivid backdrop for countless small fluid-filled and blood-filled blisters that have bubbled and billowed the skin into a grotesque cobblestone effect. Some of the blisters have burst, leaving blood-tinged trails of fluid running down his arm to mingle with the bloody ooze that still seeps from the fang marks.

_Oh, sweet Jesus!_

I'm afraid of what more I might find, but reach out and, taking Sam's sweat-dampened shirt by the hem, gently pull up on it until his right side is exposed. In my peripheral vision I catch Sam, cloth still pressed to his face, glancing down to get a look as well, but then suddenly closing his eyes and swallowing hard. I know he won't admit it, but I'm certain he's once again fighting waves of nausea and dizziness and what little hint of color he had has drained from his face.

The sight I find underneath Sam's raised shirt is like a punch to the gut. His right armpit is swollen dramatically and a large area of brilliant plum now colors his right shoulder and ribcage. When the discoloration had been confined only to Sam's hand, I was able to convince myself that things weren't too bad, that Sam was doing alright, that I'd get him to the medical help he needs before it was too late. But the pronounced spread of discoloration up Sam's arm and to his torso shatters the false sense of security that I've so willingly sought and fills me with a blazing fear that no matter what I do, it can only be too little, too late.

I pretend not to notice when Sam opens his eyes again but, instead, do my best to avoid looking him in the face. It's not because I'm afraid of the emotion I might see behind his eyes again, but because I'm afraid of the emotion he might see behind _mine_. The last thing I can afford right now is to freak out in front of Sam. It doesn't really matter that I _am _freaking out. It just matters that Sam doesn't see it. I do my best to shore up my walls and not allow Sammy to see in. The longer we've hunted together, the better the little geek has gotten at reading me, so I push to build them as high and as unyielding as I can.

"See anything?"

The sound of Sam's whispered voice snaps me back to attention and I quickly push his shirt back down, hoping he didn't catch a glimpse of anything.

"Ummm...just a little bruising on your ribs...probably from when we went over the falls."

Sam's brow creases and his eyes cloud with emotion.

"You don't have to do that."

"Do what, Sam?"

"You don't have to lie...to keep up appearances for my sake."

"I'm not lying, Sammy." _God, Sammy, please don't do this. Please just accept what I'm telling you and leave this alone. _

"Come on, Dean. I took the wilderness courses, I know the symptoms. The pain, the swelling, the bruising...not to mention the vomiting and dizziness...and now the nosebleed. I know things are bad...and it's probably just gonna get worse."

_I'm begging you, Sam. Please don't do this. _

"I'm just saying, I don't want you to lie. I know, Dean...and it's not good."

_It's OK for Sam to lie to me about the bite, but it's _**not** _OK for me to lie to him? _Suddenly, anger overtakes me and my voice raises in frustration.

"Oh, and like you didn't try lying to me about the severity of the bite!"

Sam looks away sheepishly, his facial expression twisting with his churning emotions and tears brim at his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.

"I just...I just wanted to protect you, Dean."

_Yeah, Sam, I know. That's what I was trying to do, too. You're my baby brother, Sammy, and all I want to do is protect you. _All of the sudden, I can't be angry with him anymore and my voice calms.

"I don't need to be protected, Sammy. And anyway, nothing's gonna get any worse because we're gonna get the hell out of here and to a hospital."

"Dean, the symptoms are worsening faster than..."

"And that's why we've got to get your scrawny ass moving."

"I just think you need to prepare yourself..."

_No! No, no, no, no, no! I don't want to have this conversation. I **can't **have this conversation...ever!_

My little brother's telling me he's going to die and he's resigned himself to that. He may be OK with it, but I'm not. Dying is a fate I won't let him have. As long as there's breath in my lungs I'm not going to let my brother die! Failure is just _not _an option. I can feel the tears well in my eyes as Sam's words crash into me so hard that I don't think I'll ever be able to catch my breath. My anger returns with an intensity so powerful that I just can't contain it.

"Shut up, Sam! Just shut up! I don't want to hear any 'I'm gonna die and there's nothing you can do about it' speeches because it isn't gonna happen! I'm not gonna let you give up. I'm gonna get you outta this miserable, godforsaken wasteland and to a hospital and you're gonna be just fine! So you can just shut the hell up right now!"

**SSSSSS**

**One hour later**

**Sam's POV**

"I...can't...Dean. I've...got...to stop."

"You can't stop now, Sammy. You're too close to stop now. It's only another quarter mile. You can do it."

Dean's angry outburst at the cabin had left his emotions raw and open and the air around us had hung thick and deathly quiet. Tense moments passed, each of us silently lost in our dark, swirling emotions, as the nosebleed slowed and then finally stopped. But it was the wordless, yet poignant, desperation in Dean's pleading hazel eyes that had driven a spike of guilt through my heart. Dean had always been there - nursed me through scraped knees, cuddled me close and reassured me when Dad had been gone too long, defended me against the school bullies that always preyed on the new kid and was always right next to me, helping to pick up the pieces when my life had gone completely to Hell - never wavering, never giving up on me no matter how much of a jerk I was to him. How could I just give up now; just roll over and let Death take me with a whimper? No, Dean deserved better than that and I knew, should things not end well, that I would never be able to rest peacefully knowing that I hadn't given Dean everything I had.

So I had buried it all, the pain, the weakness, the nausea and the fear, under a renewed conviction to fight. If I couldn't find it in me to fight for myself, than I would fight for the debt I owe my brother, and we had set back out on the trail. But the pain is back full force now, not only in my arm, but also in my shoulder and right side. The longer we've hiked, the more certain I am that my steadfast determination just isn't going to be enough, that I'm not going to make it out of here. For Dean's sake, I'm trying...trying _so_ hard...but if we don't reach the Impala soon, I'm afraid that no matter how much I try to battle on, I'm still going to lose the war.

I've been leaving small, splatters of crimson along our trail as blood continues to seep from the fang marks and ruptured blisters, then washes down my hand and drips from my bloated fingertips. My arm, shoulder and side burn with a fire of Biblical proportions and I'd love nothing more than to have one of those Morphine tablets Dean gave me back at the cabin, but I'm already so lightheaded that I've stumbled heavily into Dean. So many times, in fact, that he's taken to hooking his arm around my waist to keep me from falling. At this point I think he's holding me up more than my own legs are.

"I...gotta...stop. My legs...worst...Charlie horses...ever had."

"No, Sam. We're too close."

Another hundred yards and my body refuses to cooperate. "Dean...sick!"

I try to stay on my feet but even with the support from Dean, the powerful spasms take me to my knees. I've long since thrown up whatever was once held by my stomach and just as I begin to think my body will expel the tortured organ, too, the heaving stops.

Dean hasn't said anything, just continued to support my sagging body with one arm while massaging sympathetic circles across my upper back with the other. But now that the purging has ended, I can feel an invisible wall of urgency crackling in the air around my older brother and it drives me to push myself with everything I have to get back onto my feet. As Dean's supportive arm slithers once again around my waist I hear him utter a breathless, 'Oh, Thank God' and I just can't bring myself to tell him that there's a tingling sensation developing in my hands and feet and around my mouth.

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

Oh, God, I've never seen Sam looking this rough. He's so unsteady now that I've been guiding him along like some puppeteer whose marionette's movements are governed by the way in which he pulls and releases its strings. The sweat is just pouring off his pale skin and I can feel Sam's racing heart pounding away like some internal jackhammer.

He's started to lag so I keep up a steady stream of encouragement, hoping that Sam can dig deep enough to make it the rest of the way to the dirt lot at the trail's end where we'd left the Impala. My tactic seems to be working well enough when Sam is blind-sided by a particularly savage round of vomiting and goes to his knees. Nothing comes up, but the peristaltic viciousness of the spasms forces out these ungodly harsh sounding gagging noises and I'm afraid that, this time, Sam won't be getting back up.

I know Sam's exhausted and that it would be just so much easier for him to stay there; stay on the ground and just give up. So when I see him struggle his way back to his feet, a rush of relief spills over me. "Oh, Thank God."

**§§§§§§**

**20 minutes later**

**Fletcher's Gorge trailhead**

**Dean's POV**

"Easy, now. That's it. Just lean back."

I ease Sam, spread-eagled, to the ground, his back supported by the Impala's sleek, black silhouette, his right arm dangling at his side and his left slung limply across his lap. His head lolls weakly against the car's cool steel and it's obvious he's having trouble focusing.

I snatch the key from the left front pocket of my jeans as I run to the driver's side and fumble clumsily while trying to jam it quickly into the lock. Finally, the lock 'thunks' open noisily and the driver's side door swings wide open with its usual screech of protest. Jumping in, I jam the gas pedal to the floor and crank the ignition all in one motion, uttering a prayer of thanks to my girl when the engine quickly roars to life. Leaning over, I unlock the passenger's side door and fling it open with a shove. Then, scooting quickly across the Impala's bench seat, I climb back out on the passenger's side.

"Oh, fuck..."

Sam's sitting with his back against the rear passenger's door, coughing feebly as a scarlet tide once again flows from his nose, spills over his lips and fills his mouth. I pull Sam forward to clear his airway and he watches dazedly as the blood that drips from his nose splatters onto his left arm and into his lap. Grabbing a rag from the kit behind the passenger's seat, I try to staunch the bleeding. My efforts seem to diminish the flow, but this time it doesn't stop entirely. I don't want to waste more time, so I give up and toss the bloody cloth onto the floor in the front of the car. Knotting fistfuls of Sam's shirt in each hand, I haul Sam up to sit listlessly on the Impala's front passenger seat. I have to support Sam's nearly flaccid body with one hand as it slumps weakly into the seat, while I use the other hand to shove his long legs awkwardly under the dashboard.

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

Something's choking me and I try to cough it away, but it doesn't seem to help. That's when I feel myself being pulled roughly forward. Small splashes of someone's blood dot my arm and I wonder whose it could be. I'd really like to know that answer, but I'm too tired to figure it out and then there's suddenly a cloth at my face. The fabric smells vaguely of gun cleaning fluid and it makes me think of Dean. _Gosh, I hope that isn't Dean's blood that I'm seeing_.

I'm really not sure where I am or whether Dean's OK and panic wells up in me. But then there's a quick jerk and I feel myself sink onto a reassuringly familiar surface. I've put in thousands of miles and hundreds of hours on this surface, awake and asleep, conscious and unconscious, and I'd know it anywhere, anytime - Impala, 'shotgun' position.

I can't seem to find the energy to hold my head up so I just allow my neck to arch back until my head falls heavily against the seat. I hear the throaty rumble of the gunned engine and feel the abrupt sway of the classic's chassis, the tires emitting an accusing squeal as they leave the dirt lot and grab traction on the pavement. _Dean sure is gonna be pissed when he finds out someone mistreated his baby like that._

That choking sensation has returned and I start to cough again. From somewhere far away I hear a 'God dammit' and feel a warm hand as it supports the back of my head until it's resting gently against the passenger's window. I can't seem to stop coughing and the efforts become increasingly strident until the choking sensation finally disappears. I hear a garbled buzz of words and think to myself that when I wake up from my nap, I'm going to have to find the person that helped me and thank them.

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

I cram my foot onto the Impala's gas pedal and the tires spin, slinging gravel and a ton of dust into the air before catching hold of the macadam with an angry shriek. I'll have to apologize to her later, but right now, Sammy's more important.

Not even a mile down the road, Sam's gagging and coughing again.

"God dammit!"

With his head arched back along the top of the seat, Sam is suffocating on his own blood as it drains thickly down the back of his throat. Without even slowing down, I reposition Sam so that he can clear his airway and, after what feels like an eternity, the rough coughing subsides, but not before the passenger's window where Sam's head rests is adorned with a grisly reddish spray.

"Sam? You still with me?...Don't you do that!...Don't you close your eyes, Sam!...You hear me?..."

I reach over, quickly grasping Sam's left wrist, and feel for a pulse. His skin's all clammy and his pulse is fast, but it's there. I glance over to check his breathing and notice something else. The large muscles of Sam's legs and upper arms are beginning to flicker and twitch in softly undulating waves.

I know I saw one of those blue and white "H" signs for a hospital on the way up here. I always look for them before starting a hunt...kind of an occupational precaution, I suppose. But I haven't seen it yet and I slam the side of my fisted hand down hard on the steering wheel in frustration.

"Son of a bitch! Where the fuck _is _it?!"

I don't know whether it's the vulgarity or the volume, but my flash of anger rockets Sam's eyes open and I'm determined to keep them that way.

"Sam! Sam!"

"Mmmm."

_Oh, man, that's a sweet sound. _Not exactly a real word, but I'll take what I can get.

"That's it, Sammy! Come on, stay with me here! Let me know you're in there!"

"Nngghh."

"That's it! Keep talking, stay awake. There! There it is, Sam! There's the sign! It's not much further! Just hang on a little longer, Sammy!"

**§§§§§§**

**Sam's POV**

Somewhere it registers that I've heard a loud 'thump' and that it's quickly followed by a raised and agitated voice. _Hmmm, obscenities...yeah, that's gotta be Dean._ _Think, Sam. 'Thumps' and cuss words. We're either on a less than brilliantly executed hunt or Dean's just made a few more barroom 'friends' in that 'Dean' sort of way he has and we're probably about to get our asses kicked._

I can't seem to remember which one of those scenarios is the right one, so I try calling out his name. I can't understand why, but nothing's coming out quite the way I had intended. My mouth feels numb and my tongue's so thick feeling that I can't form the words. My legs and arms jitter uncontrollably and I just can't seem to breathe right. _Oh, God! __I need air! __I'm gonna suffocate! __I can't breathe!_

**§§§§§§**

**Dean's POV**

The obnoxious sign at the hospital's drive says "5 MPH" but I don't care that I'm doing many more times that limit as the Impala screeches to a stop in front of the ER's ambulance entrance. One look at Sam's anxious expression and labored breathing and I know we couldn't have afforded another minute.

Bounding out of the car, I don't even bother to take the time to slam the driver's door behind me. A parked ambulance, with its rear doors thrown wide, stands empty while waiting for its crew to return from inside. As I dash for the doors, the crew ambles unhurriedly out, the empty ambulance cot sporting a fresh, tautly stretched sheet. I grab the nearest EMT's upper arm in a vice grip and pull him roughly towards the Impala.

"My brother...you've gotta help him! Please!"

* * *

**To be continued... **(I know, I know...evil cliffhanger. But, hey, a girl has to stop somewhere, right? I promise to update ASAP.)

* * *

**A/N:** Call it shameless, but I just couldn't resist using "Haven't We Lost Enough?" as a chapter title. Not only has Dean actually said this on the show, but it's also a song title from the 1990 Crosby, Stills & Nash album, "Live It Up". And considering the conversation (sort of) that the boys had in the cabin about Sam dying, well, it was just too perfect a fit to not use it. 


	6. The Air That I Breathe

**Disclaimer: **

No profit is being made. Supernatural is the property of Eric Kripke and the CW Network. No infringement is intended.

**A/N: **

"Curb-side rescues" are incidents where medical personnel retrieve patients from inside the car of someone that drove them to the ER. They are an especially dreaded part of Emergency Medicine because the patients are often extremely ill and have not had the benefit of care from a pre-hospital Basic or Advanced Life Support Unit. Worse yet, curb-side rescues usually necessitate the panic-stricken friend or family member be at the bedside as patient care is initiated so that the ER team can get all of the info. needed to appropriately treat the patient. Stressed out friends and family don't normally deal well with witnessing the often frightening-appearing procedures that their loved one requires.

I also want to take the time to allay some readers' fears...**_No! This is NOT a deathfic!_** I'm not sadistic enough to write deathfics. But...I _am _sadistic enough to want to give 'em a pretty thorough whumping. **;-)**

**Dedications:**

Once again, I'd like to mention that this fic is for Faye Dartmouth. I know it's taken a while, Faye, but I hope this chapter does your Secret Santa/UltimateLimp!Sam fantasy proud.

**Reader Warning: **

I was told with my last fic that y'all wanted even _more _medical detail. Please be warned this chapter describes in graphic detail the events leading up to and including a particularly intense emergency medical procedure.

_

* * *

_

_Sometimes, all I need is the air that I breathe_

_And to love you._

_All I need is the air that I breathe,_

_Yes, to love you._

_All I need is the air that I breathe._

- The Hollies _- _"The Air That I Breathe" -

* * *

**Crotalus**

**From the previous chapter:**

_The obnoxious sign at the hospital's drive says "5 MPH" but I don't care that I'm doing many more times that limit as the Impala screeches to a stop in front of the ER's ambulance entrance. One look at Sam's anxious expression and labored breathing and I know we couldn't have afforded another minute._

_Bounding out of the car, I don't even bother to take the time to slam the driver's door behind me. A parked ambulance, with its rear doors thrown wide, stands empty while waiting for its crew to return from inside. As I dash for the doors, the crew ambles unhurriedly out, the empty ambulance cot sporting a fresh, tautly stretched sheet. I grap the nearest EMT's upper arm in a vice-like grip and pull him roughly towards the Impala._

_"My brother...you gotta help him! Please!"_

**Chapter 7: The Air That I Breathe**

**Dean's POV**

The shocked EMT stumbles awkwardly beside me as I savagely yank him the dozen or so steps to the Impala's passenger's side door, where his eyes go wide. He spins around to face his obviously younger, and most likely rookie, partner who's still standing at the ambulance entrance doors with the stretcher, mouth hanging wide. By the look on the younger EMT's face, he's undoubtedly thinking I must be a deranged and thoroughly dangerous man. Until Sam gets the help he needs, that's probably not all that far from the truth.

"Holy shit! Tony, get that litter over here...now!"

Tony jumps nervously at his partner's hollered command but quickly heads towards us, the ambulance cot bouncing and clattering noisily as it rumbles across the blacktop to the Impala's side.

"Jesus, Ray! What the hell's wrong with him?"

I've already run around to the driver's side and scrambled back onto the front seat. The bleeding from Sam's nose has finally slowed to a trickle again, leaving behind dry, flaking tracks of dark maroon that streak over his lips and wander down his chin and neck. Irregularly shaped drops of still-glistening, half-congealed blood pepper his forearms and shirt.

I embrace my little brother, muttering a steady stream of quiet reassurances, and try to keep him from slipping from the seat as Ray opens the car door.

"It's OK, Sammy. We're here now. We're at the hospital and they're gonna help you. You're gonna be OK. I'm gonna make sure they take good care of you."

Ray leans into the car, his experienced eyes darting about, quickly taking in Sam's appearance, the bloody rag on the floor, the gruesome splash of red on the passenger's window, and the labored breathing that struggles to gasp in even the smallest gulps of air.

Where Sam's eyes had previously been slipping shut, they're now thrown wide in fear, his face anxious and pleading. His sweaty skin is sickeningly pale and if I didn't know him as the insanely squeaky-clean guy that he is, the way the muscles of Sam's arms and legs are quivering, I'd be inclined to think he was suffering from the DT's.

"Push that stretcher in here, Tony, and keep it from moving while we slide him on out. Alright buddy, try to take it easy. We're gonna lift you out now."

Ray grabs Sam under the arms and he hardly reacts, all of his concentration seemingly going into breathing. When Ray quickly shifts Sam around so that his back leans against Ray's chest, Sam's head sags back against the EMT's left shoulder. I grab Sam under each knee and lift in concert with Ray until Sam is lying flat on the ambulance gurney, his arms and legs twitching and shuddering with each surge of muscle spasms.

Sam isn't on the stretcher more than a few seconds before he's struggling agitatedly, attempting to gain enough control of his uncooperative muscles to throw his legs over the right side of the cot in a frenzy to sit forward. His left hand flails wildly in the air until he catches hold of the cot's siderail, pulling so hard on it in an effort to lever himself up that his knuckles turn a stark white.

"Can't...br-..."

As I work feverishly to prevent Sam from falling from the narrow stretcher, Ray raises the head of the ambulance cot as high as it'll go. Sam hunches his upper body forward and stops his anxious scrambling long enough for me to push his long, gangly legs back onto the gurney as Ray begins pulling urgently for the ER doors.

"I've got this, Tony! Run ahead and tell 'em we've got a curb-side rescue that's gonna need a trauma room!"

Sammy's shoulders bob up and down dramatically as he uses every muscle in his upper body to drag air into his mutinous lungs. The odd, heaving nature of his gasping reminds me of the gaped-mouth breaths of a fish too long out of water.

As we race for the doors, I push the stretcher with one hand and grab hold of Sam's left hand with the other. I know Sam realizes I'm still with him when I feel his shaking hand tighten around mine. He sways unsteadily with the bumpy jostling of the streatcher and Ray places a large, stablizing hand on his left shoulder, then calls out to Tony just as the rookie reaches the hospital's entrance.

"Tell 'em they better page Respiratory, stat! This kid's really struggling for air!"

**SSSSSS**

**Sam's POV**

I know I'm in the Impala and I thought Dean was with me, but I can't really feel him now. Ever since I can remember, I've always been able to sense when Dean is close and that feeling has given me reassurance that everything would be alright, even when it seemed it couldn't possibly ever be. I miss that comforting feeling now, but can't afford the energy to dwell on why it's missing because the air just seems so unnaturally thick.

My right arm still burns madly but it's quickly being eclipsed by the searing sensation in my chest. I'm using every muscle I have to try and draw air into my lungs and it seems as though it's just not enough. My brain is calling out for Dean, screaming his name, but no longer seems capable of controlling my mouth.

Somewhere along the way, I must have surrendered control of the muscles in my arms and legs, as well. I can feel them cramping and fluttering in these strange, wave-like contractions. As hard as I try, I can't get them to cooperate long enough to stop their jumping movements and it's really starting to freak me out.

That's when I realize my big brother is by my side again and is cradling me in his arms. _Somehow, Dean, you always know when I need you._

His voice is soft and soothing as he tells me that it's going to be OK, that he's going to take care of me. I'd like to tell him that I already knew that; that I had never doubted him. But I'm working so hard to breathe that, even if I could spare the precious air, I have no power left with which to force it out into words.

Two new people, two guys I don't recognize, appear at my right side. Seconds later the older guy is grabbing me under the arms and pulling me out of the car. The pain that shoots down my right arm and ribcage is so intense that I swear I'm gonna pass out and I can't do anything but allow my head to fall limply against the man's shoulder.

When I find myself lying flat out on what can only be a stretcher, I struggle to sit up. Breathing was hard enough sitting upright, but it's damned near impossible lying down. I've _got_ to sit up and I try slinging my legs over the cot's edge and grabbing blindly for anyone or anything I can use to pull myself upwards.

I know my brother can help me. He always does. If I can just let Dean know that I can't breathe, I'm sure he'll fix whatever's wrong. Somehow, I grab enough air to try to wheeze out a few syllables.

"Can't...br-..."

I want to get up so badly. I _need_ to sit up. I can't breathe. I can't get enough air and I'm really scared. I don't want to die. _Please, Dean! Please don't let me suffocate!_

Something or someone is preventing me from sitting forward and I fight against them. Whatever I had managed to croak out must have made _some _sense, because I suddenly feel my upper body raised high and I stop struggling.

As I lean forward, muscles straining hard to pull air into my burning lungs, I feel a rough hand close over mine. The familiar feel of the calloused hand lets me know Dean's still with me and I thank him the only way I'm able, my fingers curling gratefully around his.

I feel the cot bouncing roughly underneath me and hear someone yelling something about calling someone. I didn't hear who it was they were getting hold of, but it doesn't really matter, as long as I've still got hold of Dean's hand.

**DDDDDD**

**Dean's POV**

Sam is rushed down a long, blue and white-tiled hallway and into a large, brightly lit, glass-fronted room that's already impossibly jammed with people and monitors. Cabinets, each about six feet tall with roll-up doors on the front, line one entire wall. The opposite wall is crowded with multiple large, red plastic trash cans, a sink and a six foot high cupboard with a full-length glass door on the front. A row of bottons and dials line the cabinet's face, just to the left of the door, and an amber-colored LCD winks out the display "120F". I can see that the interior shelves are stacked high with carefully folded blankets and figure the high-tech locker's purpose must be to keep them warm. Several metal carts that remind me of the Craftsmen tool chests Bobby has at his salvage yard are crammed into the room near the head of the bed.

If only it was that easy; if a few quick turns of a wrench or the proper spacing of a spark plug could fix what's gone wrong, I would have been able to help my baby brother. Instead, I stand here useless and lost, clutching my brother's unsteady hand, completely unable to ease Sam's suffering.

A tall, baby-faced blonde guy dressed in blue-green scrubs and a pair of canvas 'Chuck Taylor' Converse high-tops, a black stethoscope slung around his neck, stands slightly off from the chaotic group as they position the ambulance litter next to an elevated bed. The team prepares to move Sam over and the way the guy is watching every move of the team and eyeing Sam critically, I surmise that he must be the doctor.

"He's working pretty hard to breathe. Somebody get his shirts cut off and let's get him on fifteen liters of O2 by non-rebreather until Respiratory gets here. I'd really like to avoid having to intubate this kid, so as soon as Respiratory gets here I want him on a C- PAP machine."

_Yep, Doogie's definitely the man in charge. You better know what you're doing, pal!_

As Sam is lifted over to the trauma bed, his hand is ripped from mine and I surge forward to try to regain the contact. Ray's hand settles on my shoulder and insistently guides me back out of the team's way.

"What have you got, Ray?"

"Not sure. Didn't have time to get a history...but this guy brought him in by private auto."

"I'm Dr. Kulikowski. What can you tell me about what happened?"

The doctor's talking to me, but his eyes haven't left what's going on around my baby brother. An oxygen mask with an inflated, balloon-like bag dangling from its bottom is placed over Sam's face and the circular patches and wires of a heart monitor are arranged on his chest. A clip that reminds me of a spaceage clothespin is slipped over the end of one of Sam's fingers.

Someone has already pulled a wide rubber band tightly around Sam's left upper arm, inserted an IV catheter and is drawing several syringes of blood. Each one is handed off to someone else who screws a large needle onto the end of the syringe. The blood rushes into a fistful of test tubes as the needle is plunged successively through each of their brightly-colored rubber stoppers.

"He was bitten by a snake...a rattlesnake."

For the first time since we arrived, the doctor turned his attention from Sam. The intense look in his eyes sends a ripple of fear through me.

"Can you describe it? Do you know what it looked like?"

"It was sort of a yellowish-reddish-brown...and had black patches on it."

"Dr. Ku..."

One of the nurses indicates towards the heart monitor with a slight nod in its direction. Over the years I've learned that the shapes of the luminescent spikes on the monitor's screen have some significance, but I really don't know exactly what. One thing I _do _know is that the flashing, red "176" is Sam's heart rate and that it's beating way too fast.

"Can somebody run a strip of that, please? And then he needs a twelve-lead EKG."

I'm still trying to de-code the medical jargon when the doctor's focus quickly returns to me.

"The black patches...did they pretty much splotch the whole length of the snake or stop about two-thirds of the way?"

"I...I don't remember...but he said the snake was a Western-something."

"A Western Diamondback?"

"Yeah, that was it. It bit him on his right hand...n-near his thumb."

"Adult or juvenile...and how long ago?"

"He said it was pretty young."

I look at my watch and can hardly believe how much time has passed. We should have been about two and a half hours from the trailhead when Sam was bitten, but the obstacles Mother Nature threw in our way had dramatically extended the time it took us to hike out.

"It's a little over seven hours since he was bitten."

The doctor doesn't say a word, but I can tell by the shadow that crosses his face that he was hoping I would have answered his questions differently.

A petite, brunette nurse approaches and hands the physician a strip of small paper she'd ripped from one of the monitors and a larger paper that is covered with tiny grids and squiggled lines of black.

"That's your most recent set of vitals and his EKG, Dr. Ku. We had trouble getting a decent EKG tracing because of his muscle tremors and he's really diaphoretic."

"What's his name?"

"Sam...Winchester...his name is Sam Winchester. I...I'm his brother, Dean."

The medic steps to Sam's side, laying a gentle hand on his left arm to gain his attention.

"Sam? We're gonna start another IV, a second one, in your left arm and give you some medicine that'll help with the pain and your breathing. We're also going to draw some more blood, but this will be out of the artery in your wrist. OK?"

I notice that Sam doesn't respond. He's bent forward slightly at the waist, his mouth open wide and his chest heaving wildly. He's throwing every ounce of energy and concentration he has into his breathing. His pale skin glistens with sweat, matting his shaggy hair to his forehead, and his anxious eyes are locked on me.

_I'm not going anywhere, Sammy. I won't leave you. Please, Sammy, please don't you leave me._

"I want the current Saline IV cranked open wide with a pressure infuser on it. I don't want anything smaller than a sixteen gauge cath for our second IV line and then hang a liter of Lactated Ringers at two-fifty an hour. Give him five of Morphine, IV, and watch his respiratory status. He's struggling and air hungry enough, we don't want to depress him too much. Draw an arterial blood gas and send the other blood tubes for a CBC with diff, platelets, PT, PTT, fibrinogen and a type and cross. Get a Foley in and send a urine specimen, too. It takes a good while to mix, so get Pharmacy started on preparing fifteen vials of Antivenin Polyvalent, and have 'em put another ten vials on standby. The minute they're ready, we need to start infusing the first fifteen vials."

A flurry of activity whips up as the nurses jump to complete the physician's orders and Sam continues to gasp for air. The twitching of his muscles appears to have escalated and a nurse has to steady Sam's arm while another one starts the additional IV. Someone uses a tall, thin syringe to draw blood from the artery in Sam's left wrist, inverting the syringe several times before shoving it into a baggy of ice that's quickly whisked away to the Lab.

Before the Morphine can even be given, I notice a change come over Sam. His eyes and facial expression have been telegraphing his anxiety, but now they're broadcasting sheer panic as he gasps even harder for breath and fights to pull the oxygen mask from his face. What starts as a light wheezing quickly worsens into a horrible, high-pitched scream-like sound that fills the room every time Sam attempts to draw in air.

**SSSSSS**

**Sam's POV**

_Oh, my God! Oh, God, oh, God, I can't breathe! Somebody! Please! Help me!_

"Son of a bitch! He's having laryngeal spasms from the venom toxicity! Valium, five milligrams IV push...now! Sam? Sam? Try to relax. We're giving you medicine to help correct that."

_I'm suffocating! The air...It's just too thick...I can't get the air in! I can't breathe!_

"Dr. Ku, his O2 sats are dropping! Mid-80's."

_I gotta get air! Oh, God, it hurts! My chest hurts so bad! Please! _

I'm sitting bolt upright in the bed, my shoulders and head arched back and my abdominal muscles drawing in deeply under my ribs as I try to drag air into my lungs. Each attempt is rewarded with that horrendously shrill, squealing noise, but no air. The oxygen mask over my face feels suffocating and I just know its going to asphyxiate me if I don't get it off, so I start grabbing and clawing it away from my face.

_Dean! Dean, I can't breathe! The air will go out, but it won't come back in! Please, Dean! I'm so scared! I don't want to die!_

"Sats are down to the upper 70's!"

"Where the _hell_ is Respiratory?! Hit him with another five of Valium, IV!"

_I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die! Oh, God, I don't want to leave you, Dean, but I can't breathe. I can't do it anymore...I can't fight this!_

**DDDDDD**

**Dean's POV**

"Low 70's!"

Sam's skin is colorless and his lips and fingertips have turned a dusky shade of blue. I struggle violently against Ray's hold.

"SAM! SOMEBODY HELP HIM! SAAAAAM!"

Sam's body starts to sag and his eyes begin to roll up in his head.

"He's going out! We're never gonna get an ET tube past those spasms! Get a trach tray...NOW!"

Instantly, the head of Sam's bed is lowered flat. His lax upper body is lifted and a thick blanket is placed under his shoulders until his neck is flexed backward. A nurse quickly splashes an iodine solution across Sam's neck while Dr. Kulikowski slips on a pair of sterile gloves.

Sam is still making that frightening, squealing sound when he breathes, but the unnervingly silent spaces between breaths are growing ominously longer and longer. Multiple monitors scream and bleat out their warnings of Sam's deteriorating condition. I push against Ray's restraining grasp until I break free and bulldoze through the throng of people to Sam's side.

"What's happening?! Why can't he breathe?! Help him! _Do _something!"

"Ray! You either keep his brother back or you get him the hell outta here!"

Both Ray and Tony grab me by the upper arms and I thrash desperately to stay by Sam's side. But as I wrestle in their grips, the ankle I'd twisted going over the falls gives way, a rush of pain sizzling up my shin, and they're able to haul me forcibly towards the door.

"No! Please! I've got to stay with him! I promised him!"

Ray shoves a beefy finger into my chest; his face in mine, stern and reddened.

"Then you stay the hell outta their way and let them do their jobs! Hear me?"

I nod my head furiously in agreement, desperate to do anything to stay with my baby brother. I'm suddenly aware that the awful screaming sound has stopped and when I spin back around a sickening realization spreads over me that Sam's chest is no longer moving.

_He's not breathing! Oh, my God, Sammy's not breathing!_

My legs are so weak I'm not certain they'll continue to hold me up and Ray, who moments before had been angrily chastising me, is now at my side physically supporting me. The agitated shouts of the nurses and doctors whirr past my ears as I struggle to understand what's going on.

"Somebody grab the Lido..."

"No time for local anesthetic! Just gimme a scalpel and a number eight Shiley trach tube...with a cuff!"

Sam doesn't move or even flinch in pain as the doctor draws the thin metal blade across his neck, just below his Adam's apple. Blood blossoms from the open wound, the fresh tracks of red criss-crossing the dried streaks from his nose as it washes around to the back of Sam's neck and drips, silent and sticky, to the bedsheet below. Seconds later, the physician pushes the flat handle of the scalpel through the incision he made in Sam's windpipe and turns it to enlarge the opening. Removing that, he grabs a curved, clear plastic tube from a tray and quickly inspects it. A syringe of air, attached to a small plastic hose, dangles from the tube and the physician depresses the plunger. He watches as a flexible balloon expands around the tube, about half an inch from its base, and then hurriedly withdraws the air once again.

"Cuff integrity is good! A number eight Shiley's going in! Somebody be ready to secure this!"

The medic worms his left pinkie finger into the hole in Sam's neck and then slips the curved, clear tube in behind it with his right hand. While he uses his right hand to steady the tube, the blood-slicked fingers of his left hand once again push the syringeful of air into the tube's cuff, expanding it deep in Sam's trachea.

Dr. Kulikowski continues to hold the tube in place, watching closely as a burly man who's just arrived in the room attaches a square-ish device and then an ambu bag to the end of the tube. The man begins squeezing the ambu rhythmically, Sam's chest rising and falling in time with each squeeze and release, as a nurse secures the tube with tapes tied snugly around Sam's neck.

The burly man continues to squeeze the ambu bag as he listens to Sam's chest with his stethoscope, lifting and replacing it in a new area after every few squeezes. As he straightens, he pauses to check the square device he'd placed between the trach tube and the ambu.

"We've got good breath sounds bilaterally and the CO2 detectors showing positive for carbon dioxide return. Looks like a good placement, Dr. Ku."

While continuing to bark out orders, the doctor hurriedly stitches the tube into place to prevent it from slipping out.

"I want X-ray in here, yesterday, for final tube placement confirmation. Suction the trach every fifteen minutes to keep the airway clear. Respiratory, you feeling any spontaneous respiratory effort from this kid?"

"Not much, but he's trying every once in a while...maybe every six breaths or so."

"OK. I want him on humidified ventilation. You can put your vent settings on assist-control with a rate of twelve and an initial FiO2 of one-hundred percent. Go with a tidal volume of twelve milliliters per kilo and a PEEP of no more than five centimeters of water. Nebulize ten cc's of inhaled Mucomyst through the trach to keep secretions thin and to a minimum. Also, draw another arterial blood gas in fifteen minutes. If those results look good, we'll drop him to an FiO2 of sixty percent."

"Got it."

"Is that antivenom ready yet?"

A nurse holds the medication and a sheaf of papers overhead.

"I have it, and your labwork, right here, Dr. Ku."

The physician glances quickly over the multitude of papers he'd been handed and looks up suddenly.

For the first time in minutes..._had it been only minutes? It feels as though it's been a lifetime since Sam stopped breathing..._

For the first time in minutes, Dr. Kulikowski turns his complete attention to me.

"Sam ever have asthma or an allergy to horses?"

My muddled brain has trouble thinking as it flips back through the years of illnesses, bumps, bruises, broken bones, and a myriad of legally and illegally obtained medications.

"Umm...no, he, ah...he never had asthma...and no allergies to medicines...but...but I don't know about the horses. We've never really been around any."

As quickly as I'd captivated his attention, it was gone and the physician had turned back to his team.

"His labs look like shit. His clotting times are so extended that we don't have time for skin testing. Dose him with fifty milligrams of Benadryl and three-hundred milligrams of Cimetadine via IV. Hopefully, that'll help to avoid any antivenom reactions. Start the first fifteen vials infusing at ten cc's over five minutes. If there's no reaction after that's in, jack the rate to two-hundred and fifty cc's an hour. Have Pharmacy go ahead and start mixing the ten vials we had them put back on standby and get another ten more waiting in the wings. I have a feeling we're gonna need them...and more. Get the bedside ultrasound over here, we need to sono his legs for clots...and get Radiology warming up the scanner for a stat head CT. Until we can get his clotting under control, he's at high risk for a cranial bleed. I'm gonna mark the borders of the edema and bruising on his right arm and chest with a pen and I want it monitored every fifteen minutes for progression. Get a Rad Tech in here to shoot a portable film of that right hand to look for any possible retained fangs. Oh, and have someone check on the availability of air medical to St. Stephen's Regional Trauma Center. This kid's not gonna survive a transport by ground."

The medical lingo swirled in my head, most of it without comprehension, but the doctor's final statement sliced right through me, the significance of the words ricocheting around in my head and echoing in my ears.

_This kid's not gonna survive a transport by ground...This kid's not gonna survive a transport...This kid's not gonna survive...This kid's not gonna survive...This kid's not gonna survive...This kid's not gonna survive..._

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

**A/N: **It fit the chapter's action so well, I just had to use the title of 'The Hollies' last major hit song, 1974's "The Air That I Breathe", as the Chapter 6 title. Taken in the correct context (brotherly love), the song's refrain just seems to perfectly illustrate the two things Sam wants most now...the air that he breathes and to love and _be_ loved by his big bro, Dean. 


	7. One

**Disclaimer: **No claim is being made to anything other than an obsessive love for the characters of Eric Kripke's, 'Supernatural', and the actors that portray them so wonderfully.

**A/N: **I'd like to thank everyone for their truly overwhelming support of the previous chapter. Despite the occasional idiotic review, I'm not about to stop writing...especially when there are so many of you that understand and appreciate the time, energy and love I pour into my fics. _You_ are truly what makes writing so much fun.

This chapter differs slightly from the past few in a stylistic manner. Italics will still express Sam and Dean's unexpressed thoughts and the story will still be told from each boy's POV. But instead of separating those POV's into their own small snippets, they will be mixing into one, cohesive section. Trust me...it'll make more sense when we get there!

So...without any further adieu, on to the next chapter. Hopefully this chapter will be the multi-hankie read I was aiming for.

* * *

_One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do, __two can be as bad as one,_

_it's the loneliest number, __since the number one._

_No, is the saddest experience __you'll ever know,_

_Yes, it's the saddest experience __you'll ever know._

'_Cause one is the loneliest number __that you'll ever do_

_one is the loneliest number, o__h, worse than two._

_It's just no good anymore __since you went away. _

_Now I spend my time, __just making rhymes of yesterday._

_One is the loneliest, __number one is the loneliest,_

_number one is the loneliest number __that you'll ever do..._

- Three Dog Night - "One" -

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 7: One**

**Dean's POV**

_Hands. Strange, unfamiliar hands. Small, feminine hands - that's good; but still unfamiliar hands. _

_Did I pick up some girl at a bar? I don't remember being_ _in a bar. But those hands...they're definitely a woman's hands. God, I hope she's hot. _

_Huh, that's strange. If I _**did** _pick up this girl, I must be slipping. Her hands, they don't seem soft and caressing. They're not erotic in their exploration of the landscape of my body. There's no hesitant fingertips brushing the skin, no ripples of expectant goosebumps tingling across my skin. There's just no lustfulness in the touch. _

_This girl's hands are more...more...I don't know...deliberate. No, that's not it. That's not the right description. They're more celibate. Yeah, that's what it is - celibate...not unkind, just not sensual. What did I do? Oh, Lord, don't tell me I've seduced a nun!_

_No...no, that can't be it. Even _**I** _wouldn't be so low as to have sex with a nun. Ok, so maybe that one time...but, oh man, her cup sure runneth over! _

_But this...this isn't like that. These hands are just so dispassionate, so un-sexy, that they're almost...well, clinical. But why would...?_

_No. No! No, please. Please! Please, don't let it be true. Let it all just be a horrible, ugly, ate-one-too-many-burritos-before-I-went-to-bed, indigestion-inspired nightmare!_

"He seems to be coming around, Dr. Ku."

_Nooo! No, no, no! If you're who I think you are, that means I'm where I think I am. And, if that's true...if that's true...then the nightmare is true. Oh, God, Sammy. Please, no!_

"Sam!"

"Relax, Dean. Come on, now. Just lay back. You had an anxiety attack and hyperventilated until you passed out...but you're safe, ok? You're safe and everything's alright."

_I'm safe? Safe?! I don't fucking care if I'm safe! All I care about is Sam. Sammy's the only person in this world that matters. Hell, he _**is **_my world. And everything's _**not** _alright, 'cause Sammy's not alright. I'm supposed to protect him and I didn't. How could anything possibly be alright?! _

I'm lying on a trauma bed, the surface slanted so that the foot end is higher than the head end. The swish of hydraulics can be heard as the foot of the bed lowers, stopping when it becomes level. A nurse, her photo badge identifying her as 'Olivia, Registered Nurse', depresses a lever on the bed and deftly pulls up on the head of the bed until I'm seated in a comfortable, semi-upright position.

Confusion crosses my face when I realize my clothing is gone and I'm dressed in one of those wretched hospital gowns. The sheet covering my legs is pushed to one side, exposing the freshly sutured gash on my left thigh. My right leg is propped high on pillows and a bag of ice is nestled snugly in around the distended ankle. Purplish-rosy bruising peeks out from under the edge of the ice pack and a biting throb keeps time with my heartbeats.

"Nice to have you back, Dean."

The young doctor's voice pulls me out of my confused daze and I shoot him an irritated look.

_You shouldn't be wasting your time on me. You should be with Sam. Sam needs you...deserves your help. I only deserve to suffer for what I've done. _

"Yeah, I know you didn't ask to be checked, but that passing out thing you did...kinda gives us carte blanche to do what needs to be done. We just finished closing the gash on your leg. You've got a dandy case of contused ribs. Never would have guessed it they way you fought Ray and Tony. Wouldn't have figured on the avulsion fracture of your right ankle, either...until we got you undressed and I saw evidence of more than a few past injuries. I take it you're the strong, silent type...would rather muddle through than admit to being injured, needing help. Care to tell me how you got hurt?"

I find myself only half-listening as my eyes begin bouncing around the room, my hunter's brain taking in every detail and memorizing everything's position in the room. As I scan the room, it crosses my mind that, although it's a different room from the one Sam had been in, it's set up almost identically.

_Yeah...the one where they slit his throat open and jammed a plastic tube down it just so he can do something as simple and supposedly automatic as breathing. But that's the problem. He wouldn't breathe. And now they've hooked him to some machine that'll do it for him._

The events of the past seven hours and the barbarity of everything my baby brother has endured because of me crashes over me in a giant wave; an emotional tsunami that slams into me with a force that steals my breath away.

_Good! I _shouldn't _be able to breathe. __Sammy__ can't breathe...and it's my fault. _I'm _the reason Sammy can't breathe. He's dying and it's all my fault. Oh my God! Maybe he's already...maybe that's why I...No, Sammy, you can't be gone. Please, no. Not Sam, please!_

"Dean. Dean..."

I feel the nurse's tiny hand on my arm. She's rubbing tenderly, up and down, on my forearm, stopping occasionally to pat it lightly, supportively.

"Dean, honey. Come on. You're starting to hyperventilate again. Slow your breathing down. You're just gonna make yourself sick."

_Make myself sick? Don't you think that I already _am _sick?! I'm sick of the lying...sick of the hustling...sick of wondering what evil will show up next...sick of the sleepless nights worrying over what that evil has in store for Sam...sick of not being able to give Sam the house, the wife, the dog, the white picket fence and the two-point-five kids kind of normal life he longed for...and I'm sick of losing everyone that dares to make the mistake of loving me._

"Come on, Dean."

It's Dr. Kulikowski again. He's got a heavy hand pressed firmly to my chest.

"Slow, deep breaths, Dean. You can do it. Come on. You keep this up and you're gonna pass out again."

_And so what's wrong with that? At least that way I'll be able to get away from what I've done. I could escape into the nothingness and leave behind the fact that my brother's dead because I was so God damned childish about a duffel full of smelly clothes. Smelly clothes that wouldn't have _been _smelly if I hadn't lost it over a skunk...a fucking skunk!_

"Come on, sweetie. Big and deep and slow."

_The nurse's voice again. I've heard your voice before...seen you before...before now...before waking up to find you hovering over me._

My brain is just now registering that the delicate nurse by my side was the one I'd seen in Sam's room, just before my world fell completely apart. On another day, I would have hit on her so fast it would have made her head spin. But today, I don't deserve her lips, the ones that curl at the corners in an elfishly sweet smile nor do I deserve the compassion that pools in her cobalt-blue eyes. Today, I deserve nothing but derision...loathing...contempt...disgust...ridicule...scorn.

_I don't deserve your compassion! Hate me! Come on! Hate me! I'm nothing but a worthless, piece-of-shit-screw-up. I always have been. I haven't earned your sympathy, your sorrow. I've earned your hatred. I've earned it and I should feel it. I _need _to feel it. I need to feel the fire of hatred burning an accusatory hole deep into me, so deeply into my soul that I'll never be able to forget what I've done. Sam's dead and it's my fault. There's no one else to be angry with; no spirits to banish, no demons to kill. There's no one to blame except myself. _I'm _the monster that killed my brother!!!_

"Is...? Is he...? I mean...S-Sammy's dead, isn't he?"

I can't even look up.I don't want to receive the doctor's pity and I don't want to see his empathetic expression when he tells me what I already know. Sammy's dead and I'm responsible.

"No, Dean, he's not. Is that what all of this, the hyperventilating, is about?"

_That, doc, and the fact that all of this is my fault. It's my fault that my baby brother is fighting for his life._

"Once we got the airway established and started the antivenom, Sam's been holding his own."

It all seems so impossible that I'm not sure I should even allow myself to believe it could be true. I've got to ask, got to make sure I heard him right, make sure I'm not just dreaming.

"He...he is? He's still alive?"

"Yeah, Dean, he is. He's getting the head CT as we speak."

"So, he's gonna be...o-okay?"

Dr. Kulikowski's nervous glance at the nurse lasts only a nano-second but it speaks volumes. My breathing quickens again as a band of fear coils itself around my chest and squeezes oppressively.

_I knew it! I knew it just couldn't be true. _

"You've got to stay calm. I'm not going to lie to you, Dean, your brother is a very sick young man. But there are things we need to talk about and some decisions you need to make, something you can't do for Sam if you keep passing out."

_Ooo, good one, doc. You certainly know where to find a guy's Achilles' heel, don't you? You've only been around us for about an hour and you've already figured out that my little brother is my weakness; that everything I do, everything I live for, is Sam._

It's so hard to fight the urge to panic, but it's harder still knowing that I'll fail Sammy yet again if I don't conquer it. I've screwed so much up already and I just _can't _keep doing it. I've got to do this. I've got to get a handle on myself. I take a deep breath and hold it, willing myself to relax and breathe normally.

"That's good, Dean. You're doing great. Think you're ready to talk?"

_Not really, doc, but I've got to, don't I? I've got to finally step up to the plate and do my job...be there for Sam...protect him. That's all I've ever wanted to do and I try...I try so hard...and I still mess everything up. I've got to do this...for Sammy._

I can't trust my voice not to break, so I simply give a shake of my head.

"Ok, good. I'm gonna be straight with you, Dean. Sam has suffered a significant envenomation, one that's only been compounded by the presumed age of the snake, its species and the amount of time that's elapsed since the bite."

"We tried...we tried getting out sooner...but we couldn't...the bridge was demolished and...and then the stream...the current was too strong...it washed us over the falls...way off course...and there was no phone or radio...God, I couldn't do anything but watch him...watch him...getting sicker."

"Devil's Breath? You two went over Devil's Breath Falls? Olivia, I want you to call CT and have them amend my orders. In addition to the head scan I want a total body Quickscan on Sam Winchester. Going over those falls...we may not be dealing with just a snakebite alone. There may be some trauma we didn't know about."

_Oh, God. This just keeps getting worse and worse. I never thought about...he didn't complain...Think, you idiot! He didn't tell you about the bite symptoms either...and then he lied about it. Why would you even think for a minute he'd tell you about any injuries? God, how stupid can you be?! I was so focused...so narrow-minded...so blinded by tunnel-vision that I couldn't see there might be something more. Dad would be so ashamed of me!_

"We're gonna check everything out, check for other traumatic injuries. But even if we don't find any, we're still dealing with the bite, Dean, and the Western Diamondback is one of this country's most dangerous venomous snakes."

"He...he told me not to worry...that it was better that it was young. I found out later...he admitted that he'd lied to me...that it's worse that it was young."

"Sam's symptoms and lab studies suggest he was right about the snake's age. Adult bites normally cause primarily hematologic, or blood related effects. The muscle twitching you saw is called myokymia and is more common with bites from juveniles, as is the laryngeal spasms Sam had."

"That blood effect...is that why Sam had the nosebleeds?"

"And why the tracheotomy bled so profusely, yes. The snake's venom depletes a key component in the blood and that loss puts the victim at risk for uncontrolled bleeding. Sam's clotting times are dangerously extended. And I know this sounds contradictory, but the same toxin that can cause the excessive bleeding can also cause unusual clotting, especially in the legs."

"Sam said...his legs...he said he had massive Charlie horses in his legs."

"A common description of the pain associated with blood clots in the lower legs. The bedside sonogram located a clot in each of Sam's lower legs, the left slightly worse than the right."

"But, he's getting the antivenom now, so that'll reverse all of these symptoms and he'll be ok, right? I mean, eventually...in...in a couple of days."

"Well, that brings us to the last factor...the time that elapsed between the bite and the start of treatment. Antivenom does its best work if given within four hours of the bite. After six or seven hours, the degree of effectiveness can start to diminish quickly. To make matters worse, we may not see the worst of this envenomation for up to forty-eight hours out from the time of the bite."

_Oh, God, I __am__ going to lose him. It took too long...the hike out took too damned long!_

"Wh-what can we do about that? We've got to help him! We can't just do nothing!"

"That's why we're having this talk, Dean. You're gonna need to make some pretty tough choices. Even if the scans don't turn up any injuries, Sam's best chance is to get him to a trauma center. We've been trying to arrange for a helo to chopper him out. Unfortunately, there's an extremely strong stormfront moving in with high winds and heavy rain and all of the air medical services are grounded. It's just not safe for anyone to fly in those conditions. Our only other option to get him there is to transport him by ground...in an ambulance. "

"But...but you...you said he...w-wouldn't sur...wouldn't s-s-s..."

_I can't...I can't say this out loud...it makes it too real, too possible, to say it out loud._

"As long as Sam's clotting is compromised, I'd have to consider a long ambulance transport to be extremely dangerous."

"Why can't he just stay here?"

"If that's what you want, he can, and we'll do everything we can for him."

"But that...the things you can do for him...it might not be enough."

I meant it as a statement but the decided crack in my voice makes it sound like a question.

"No, Dean, it might not."

_How do I do this, Sammy? How do I decide what option is right. I'm a screw up. What if I screw this up, too? What if I make the wrong choice and you die? I...I wouldn't be able...I can't go on being, not without you. _

"B-but...sending him to the trauma center...the ambulance trip might..."

"Unless something changes dramatically for the better, I'm not certain Sam will survive the night. As cruel as it sounds, the decision to keep him here or send him elsewhere may ultimately only decide whether Sam passes on here, in this hospital, with you at his side, or in the back of an ambulance on some highway with a Paramedic."

_What kind of choice is that?! Either way, you die. Sammy, you can't go! You...taking care of you, watching out for you...it's what I do...it's what keeps me from letting this life drag me under...what keeps me alive. Losing Mom...and then Dad...and now you? I can't be the only one, Sammy. I can't. But I don't know what to do! God damn it! How am I supposed to make this kind of decision?! _

"What...what...what are Sam-my's o-odds?"

"By ambulance...at best, ten percent. Staying here, ten, maybe fifteen percent. If by some miracle the weather breaks and we can chopper him out, possibly twenty to twenty-five percent..."

_Sammy needs a trauma center but the ride there might kill him...staying here might kill him, too. How am I supposed to make that kind of decision? Why should I have to decide how my baby brother's gonna die? I don't want to be alone. I don't want you to go. I just want you to stay here, Sammy...with me._

"...A strong will to live and having you here can only help. As I see it, Dean, the fact that Sam was strong enough to hang on until he got here proves he feels he's got something worth fighting for..."

_I want him to keep fighting. But am I really something worth fighting for? This is my fault. I did this to him. Maybe he'll decide I'm _**not** _worth it. I wouldn't blame him if he did. But if he does, if he doesn't have any reason to fight, what happens then?_

"...Sam should be getting back from CT any minute. When he does, we'll give you some time to see him. Then we'll talk some more and you can tell me what you've decided."

I stare at my hands as they fidget purposelessly and a cascade of thoughts thrums through my head.

Dr. Kulikowski gives my arm a quick, sympathetic squeeze and then rises from the small, rolling stool he'd been straddling. The atmosphere in the room is so still and quiet that I can hear the tiny squeak of his sneaker's rubber soles as he moves for the door.

"No."

I haven't even looked up, my eyes still focusing on my jittering hands, but the sudden cessation in the squeaking lets me know that the doctor is waiting for me to continue.

"I-if...if Sammy's gonna d-die...I want to be with him. I want him to stay here."

"Ok, Dean. He's fought hard and I'll do everything I can to help him pull through this."

**DDDDDD**

**25 minutes later**

**Dean's POV**

I'd gotten dressed and limped alongside Olivia, returning to the threshold of Sam's room. A small, square periwinkle blue sign, it's clean, white lettering declaring the room as Trauma 1, is posted at eye level just to the left of the doorframe. The color is meant to be cheerful and bright, but those are the last feelings I'm having right now and I find myself hesitant to go any further. I shift my position in indecision and an involuntary wince creases my face when my right ankle protests the added weight.

"I really wish you'd reconsider and let us take care of that properly; splint it, get you some crutches to use. Or at the very least, let us get you some pain medicine."

_You don't get it. I _can't _let you do all of that. I have to feel this pain. This is my penance for what I've done. I'll never be able to make up for what I've done, but the pain, it's a start. I know you're not gonna understand it, so I'm not even gonna try to explain._

"No. It's fine."

Olivia scrunches her shoulders in exasperation but I feel her dainty hand settle on the middle of my back. The touch seems caring and supportive, but at the same time I can't help but wonder if she's just preparing in case I do another face-plant.

"Are you sure you're ready to do this, Dean?"

_Yes. No. I don't know. Sammy needs me...and I promised him I'd be here. But...seeing him that way again...the horrific looking arm, the trach, that God damned vent...I don't know if I can do that again._

"Yeah."

I had intended for that to come out sounding a hell of a lot more confident than the pitiful whisper that actually slipped out.

"Remember what I told you?"

"Sam's been sedated, but even if he wakes up, he won't be able to talk because of the trach."

"Right. But just because he can't talk or doesn't squeeze your hand in acknowledgment, doesn't mean he can't hear you. There's some very hard science out there that says seemingly unconscious people are aware of more than they appear to be."

Olivia shuffles into the room next to me, one doll-like hand still grazing tenderly over my back while the other cups my left elbow. She grabs a chair, it's barely padded, vinyl-upholstered surface also an irritatingly perky shade of periwinkle, and positions it on Sam's left side.

I settle into it slowly, my eyes never leaving my little brother, searching for anything, any improvement, that might prove everyone wrong. Olivia's hand slips up my back and rests lightly on my left shoulder before giving it a light squeeze.

_First the doctor and now you. Is that something they teach you in school? Do they actually tell you that a light squeeze is going to make everything better? Because it doesn't. Nothing's going to make this better except for my little brother to beat this and wake up; to laugh at how freaked out I've been and then tell me what a jerk I am._

"Go ahead, Dean. You can touch him. Remember, hearing your voice and feeling your touch is still important even if he can't respond...Ok, well, I'm going to leave you two alone. The call button's here if you need anything and Dr. Ku will be back in to talk with you about the rest of Sam's tests."

I wait until I hear Olivia pull the privacy curtain across and then slide the room's glass door shut before I move. Reaching up, I take Sam's lax left hand in mine, the coolness of it almost as shocking as the nearly translucent paleness of his skin. They've propped Sam's right arm on pillows, a large absorbent pad tucked underneath to collect the blood and fluid that dribbles randomly from the blisters and bite marks. The line Dr. Kulikowski had drawn with his pen to outline the venom's progress has already been joined by another, further up Sam's shoulder. The significance of the new line and the sight of that tube sticking out of my baby brother's neck makes the bile creep up my throat. At least they'd cleaned away all of that blood on his face and from around that horrid tube.

"Sammy..."

_Dean? Oh, thank God. I didn't know where you went. I thought...I thought...I'm just glad you're here, man._

"You clean up pretty well, little bro...Now all we need to do is get you a woman so you won't seem like so much of a tightass."

_Spoken like a true man-whore, Dean._

"I can't do this, Sam...I can't sit here and joke around and...and pretend like everything is normal...I'm so sorry...if I...if I hadn't been such a jerk...you...you wouldn't...You're my little brother and...and...it's my fault."

_Yeah, I suppose you were a jerk...but that's one of the things that makes you my brother...makes you the brother I love. I wasn't paying attention...and I knew better. This is nobody's fault. It's just something that happened. _

"...What am I gonna do?...How am I supposed to keep going?...God, Sam, they're telling me they don't think you're gonna pull through..."

_What the hell do they know?! They don't know what us Winchesters are made of._

"They think...they think you should...should go to a trauma center, Sammy. But...the weather...it's too stormy...and they can't fly you there...fucking _Mother_ Nature, my ass. No one as cruel as she's been to us should ever be called 'Mother'."

As if to rebuke me for my disrespect, a vivid stroke of lightning crackles across the granite-colored sky. An enraged growl of thunder follows quickly on the lightning's heels as wind-lashed drops of rain begin to pelt the windows.

"Doc says you only have a slim chance if you stay here...but the odds aren't any better in an ambulance, Sammy...and you'd be alone..."

"_No...no way, Dean."_

"...I wouldn't be able to come with you_..."_

"_I want to stay here with you, Dean. And, anyway, I'm beating this Dean...you'll see."_

A hearty rap of knuckles resounds off the aluminum framing of the sliding glass door. Before I can even say 'come in' the door slips open slightly and Dr. Kulikowski slips through the narrow opening.

"Hey, Dean...I got the rest of Sam's tests back. The CT was negative...no cranial or internal bleeding and no fractures or other signs of trauma. We couldn't find evidence of any retained fangs and his urine tests aren't currently showing any signs of kidney failure..."

_See, Dean! I told you that you didn't have anything to worry about. I'm not giving up!_

"That's great news, doc. But it seems I'd be pretty safe in saying that there's a 'but' coming in all of that."

"Sam's still only triggering the vent fifty percent or less of the time..."

_But I'm still trying! Doesn't that count for something? I'm not gonna give up, Dean, I promise._

"...Because of the immersion in the bacteria-laden stream water, I've ordered Sam to receive a broad-spectrum antibiotic called Cefazolin through his IV's. At this point, as critically ill as Sam is, an infection would be devastating. Also, you can see by the second line I've drawn on Sam's shoulder, we're still seeing some progression despite the antivenom. As I noted before, the venom's effects can worsen for up to forty-eight hours. If we don't see some turn-around in his bloodwork in the next eight hours, we're going to exhaust our antivenom supply. Before we get that far, I want to locate another supply. I've already got calls out to other area hospitals asking for whatever they can spare."

"Why wouldn't there be enough here? I mean, this is a hospital for Christ's sake! You're supposed to have this kind of stuff!"

"I understand your frustration, Dean. I really do. I have a little brother, too. But, you've got to understand that antivenom supplies are short nationwide. It's not just us. It's very difficult and expensive to produce and has a relatively short shelf life. At one to two thousand dollars per vial, unless there's a high rate of snakebites in an area, most hospitals elect to stock only the bare minimum of supplies...provided they can even get that much. I'm gonna do everything humanly possible to give Sam the best care we can give him. You have my promise on that. But, if you've changed your mind about the ambulance transfer to a trauma center, I understand. All you have to do is say the word."

A quick glance out the small window and a cold shiver runs up my spine. The previously granite-colored skies have darkened to an evil black and the wind has begun whipping the trees that dot the hospital's landscaping. The youngest trees are bent over and yet the wind still seems to blow even harder. It's almost as though the trees are bowing down in deference to the wind's awesome power and somehow I know Sam shouldn't go.

"No. I haven't changed my mind. I'm not sure why or how I know this, but Sammy needs to stay here...wants to stay here."

_Thanks, Dean. I knew I could count on you!_

The young doctor gives me a slightly quizzical look and opens his mouth as if to ask something, but stops. I'm glad he doesn't ask, because I really don't think I could explain it any better.

"Alright, then. I'll see what I can do about getting Sam a bed in the ICU."

"Thanks, doc...for everything."

_Yeah, thanks, doc. Don't lose faith in me, guys. I'm fighting and I'm gonna keep fighting. I won't leave you alone, Dean._

Dr. Ku gives a simple nod of his head and disappears past the aluminum frame of the sliding glass door. I turn my attention back to Sam, once again lacing the cool, pale fingers of his left hand between my own warm fingers. A remembrance of long ago suddenly flashes into my head and I can't help but laugh at the innocence and irony wrapped in it.

"I remember when you were just a baby, Sammy...the way you'd wrap your long, pudgy fingers around mine...huh...everything about you was freakishly long...even back then..."

Despite my grief and worry, I can feel a smile spreading across my face as I surrender to the emotions of the memory.

"...But...you'd wrap your fingers around mine...so tight...like you were hanging on for dear life...and you'd look up at me...those eyes...you'd look at me like I could make everything alright_..."_

I can feel the hot prickle of tears burning the edges of my eyes.

"...But I can't, Sammy...I can't...Everything's gone wrong and I just can't make it right...I just can't make it right and it's killing me...killing _you_..."

_It's not up to you to make everything right. I know that and you should know that, too. You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Dean._

"I...I should...I should go...I'm nothing but a curse to everyone I'm around...every one who loves me dies...you'd be better off if I just...if I left...maybe if I left, you'd live..."

_I couldn't have made it this far if I hadn't had you to fight for, Dean._ _I've fought all this time and I'm gonna keep fighting! Please, Dean, you gotta know I'd fight for you! Please! Don't leave me! You're wrong, Dean! You've got it all wrong! You think that if you left, I'll live. But I live because you're here, Dean...because you're my brother. _

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: Written and originally released by Harry Nilsson on his 1968 album, "Aerial Ballet", the song, "One", was destined for virtual anonymity until it was covered by Three Dog Night for their 1969 album, "Three Dog Night". A song about the pain of loneliness, I felt this song reflected what Dean was going through in this chapter. 


	8. Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Supernatural...or the boys. Wish I did, but, sadly I don't. As always, I'm flying solo...sans beta...so all flubs, goofs and other WTF's are mine and only mine.

**A/N: **I apologize for the extra long wait for this chapter. Ended up pulling a few extra shifts and didn't get writing time. Also, I'll be leaving this weekend for a conference and then the T-day holiday so I probably won't be able to get the next chapter written and posted until Dec. 1st. If I get access to a computer sooner, I'll post earlier than expected.

* * *

_I sit by my window and watch the rain  
I hear it beating on my windowpane  
Well, it makes me so sad  
Bet no one ever hurt this bad_

_My baby left me and now I'm alone  
Wait for a letter and I sit by the phone  
Oh, the troubles I've had  
Bet no one ever hurt this bad_

_Since you went away  
I can't face the day  
And night brings nothin' but pain  
Thought I could go on  
I see that I was wrong  
Baby, please come home - I just can't stand to be alone_

_Somebody somewhere here my plea  
And send my baby back to me  
It'd make me so glad  
'Cause no one ever hurt this bad_

- Three Dog Night - Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad -

* * *

**Crotalus**

****

**Chapter 8: Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad**

**Sam's POV**

"I remember when you were just a baby, Sammy...the way you'd wrap your long, pudgy fingers around mine...huh...everything about you was freakishly long...even back then..."

"...But...you'd wrap your fingers around mine...so tight...like you were hanging on for dear life...and you'd look up at me...those eyes...you'd look at me like I could make everything alright_..."_

"...But I can't, Sammy...I can't...Everything's gone wrong and I just can't make it right...I just can't make it right and it's killing me...killing _you_..."

_It's not up to you to make everything right. I know that and you should know that, too. You can't carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Dean._

"I...I should...I should go...I'm nothing but a curse to everyone I'm around...every one who loves me dies...you'd be better off if I just...if I left...maybe if I left, you'd live..."

_I couldn't have made it this far if I hadn't had you to fight for, Dean._ _I've fought all this time and I'm gonna keep fighting! Please, Dean, you gotta know I'd fight for you! Please! Don't leave me! You're wrong, Dean! You've got it all wrong! You think that if you left, I'll live. But I live because you're here, Dean...because you're my brother. _

"This is all backwards, Sammy...I should be the one lying there...I should be the one dying...I shouldn't be here, anyway...It was a mistake...Dad bringing me back...it was a mistake..."

_No it wasn't, Dean. I loved Dad, but I love you, too. And so did he. Can't you see that? Can't you get it that your life counts, that I need you?_

"...Maybe...maybe I should...I'm gonna make this right, Sam..."

_Dean! Dean! What do you mean your gonna make this right? You're scaring me. What are you gonna do?_

"...I can change it, Sammy...I can...I can change the mistake Dad made...make it right...fix the balance...renegotiate...then you...you won't have to die...if I fix it, Sam, you won't have to die..."

_God, no! Please, Dean! You've got to stop this! I don't like where this is going! Please, Dean...just stay here with me. Don't go. I'm so afraid of what will happen to you if you go. Somehow I'm gonna find my way back to you so please, don't go!_

The grounding warmth of Dean's hand around mine ends with the abrupt screech of his chair as he stands up to leave.

_No! Please, Dean, you're scaring me. You're not talking straight...not thinking straight. I've got to do something to keep you from leaving._

My body feels so heavy and disconnected. For the life of me, I can't seem to make even the tiniest of muscles move.

_Come on...come on! I've got to stop him! I've never seen Dean like this. So...so out of control. I just know he's gonna do something stupid._

Until now, I had been floating in a cocoon of painless fogginess and the nearness of my brother provided a sheltering warmth. But the desperation I feel to communicate, to prevent Dean from making a tragic mistake, has abruptly peeled back that fog and a surge of pain flows in to replace it.

_Damn! When did it start hurting like this? And it's not just my arm now. The pain...it's coming from nowhere and everywhere at the same time. Maybe if I just let myself slip back into the fog...No! I can't do that. Dean...he sounds like...like...Dean, you know that hurting yourself isn't gonna help me. You're just not thinking straight. I've got to push...got to show you somehow...show you how afraid I am that if I let you walk out that door, you won't be coming back._

I strain my unwilling body, begging _any_ synapse, _any _muscle to respond to the call. The effort causes my heart to pound painfully against my ribs and I can hear the blood rushing noisily in my ears. The sounds around me become so muffled that they're nothing more than distant whispers and I worry that Dean has already left the room.

_No! Please, please! I've got to let him know._

Suddenly, it feels as if there's a cement block on my chest and the pressure of it is so intense that it's actually painful.

_Oh shit, oh shit. That's not right. Something's not right. Dean! _

It feels as though someone has shoved their hand through my chest, holding my heart in their murderous grip and squeezing so tightly it threatens to halt the organ's life-sustaining contractions. My lungs feel as though they can't expand against the growing pressure and there's an unnerving feeling of fullness in my throat.

_Oh, God! Not again! I can't breathe right. _

Spikes of panic rip through me and pain pours in from everywhere. It seems the more I struggle to push against the pain and the constricting pressure in my chest, the more it worsens. I try holding my breath to stop the lancing pain but the pain is reignited when air is forced into my lungs against my will by what I have now figured out is a ventilator.

_Holy shit that hurts! Oh, God, just stop! I just want the pain to stop!_

The piercing agony that punctuates each breath radiates straight through to my back and I can't help but flinch at how similar it feels to when we were in Cold Oak and Jake stabbed me. I force my heavy eyelids open but when my swirling vision clears, all I can see is snatches of unfamiliar faces. I want so badly to let them know how much my chest hurts, but with the tube in my throat, I can't make my voice work.

I try to bite down an irritation in my lungs, but the sensation is uncontrollable and an involuntary burst of coughing jolts through my chest. I had thought the pain in my arm had been bad, but the agony in my chest is worse, so much worse, and tears flood my eyes as my lungs feel as though they're being ripped apart.

_Dean! DEAN!!_

**DDDDDD**

**Dean's POV**

"I...I should...I should go...I'm nothing but a curse to everyone I'm around...everyone who loves me dies...you'd be better off if I just...if I left...maybe if I left, you'd live..."

_This isn't supposed to happen this way, Sammy. The deal...you were supposed to live. This wasn't supposed to happen..._

"This is all backwards, Sammy...I should be the one lying there...I should be the one dying...I shouldn't be here, anyway...It was a mistake...Dad Bringing me back...it was a mistake..."

_I shouldn't be here. If Dad hadn't done what he did...if I hadn't come back...Dad would be here now...he'd know what to do...he never would have let you get bitten in the first place. I need to do something to make this right._

"...Maybe...maybe I should...I'm gonna make this right, Sam..."

_I can't just sit here and watch you die, Sammy. There's got to be something I can...the deal...it was for a year...maybe if I make another...I've got to fix this, Sam._

"...I can change it, Sammy...I can...I can change the mistake Dad made...make it right...fix the balance...renegotiate...then you...you won't have to die...if I fix it, Sam, you won't have to die..."

My chair scoots back noisily as I stand to leave and I allow Sam's cool, lax hand to slip from mine. I really don't want to leave him, but I've got to make this right. I've got to make another deal - take me now, no conditions - in exchange for getting Sam through this, keeping him healthy and safe.

Although I haven't been sitting that long, my right ankle has stiffened remarkably quickly. The sudden added pressure sends bolts of pain slicing up my leg as the joint threatens to refuse my weight and black dots dance crazily across my vision. I grab the back of the chair to steady myself and suck in several gulps of air as I wait for my vision to clear.

I take another tentative step, determined to force my disobedient ankle to comply with my plan to walk away, to make a new deal with the Crossroads Demon. Pain once again sears its way up my leg, but the ankle holds and I add another step...and then another. I'm half-way to the doorframe when one of the monitors at Sam's bedside starts screaming. A second monitor begins to wail plaintively and almost immediately the ventilator starts to bleat out an alarm tone, following it quickly with a different one.

_Sam? No! Don't do this! I haven't had a chance to make this right! Sam!_

I can't even get myself turned around before a wall of people rushes into the room. Dr. Kulikowski sprints into the room moments later and streaks past me as I slowly make my way back towards Sam's bed, wishing that my unstable ankle would allow me to move faster.

"...heart rate's up..."

"...diaphoretic and O2 sats are down..."

I limp awkwardly towards the bed and see Dr. Kulikowski watching the team intently, a troubled frown marring his otherwise boyish features. I can't really see much until the crowd of people around the bed parts briefly and I'm surprised to see Sam's eyes open and imploring, his arms and legs flailing anxiously. An odd speckling of rosy-purple bruises, each one not much larger than a pencil point, covers Sam's lower legs and a trickle of blood leaks once again from his nose.

I can feel the apprehension and pain just radiating off of Sam but, if I had any doubts, the tears that rush down Sam's cheeks as he begins to cough harshly leave no question. A red-colored froth appears in the clear plastic trach and ventilator tubing and a flurry of activity breaks loose.

A low hissing erupts from a container mounted on the wall and a nurse connects a long, thin tubing to it. The ventilator is disconnected and the thin tube is threaded down the trach, causing Sam to cough violently again. The nurse moves her thumb over a hole near the end of the tube and slowly retracts it as the bloody foam is gently sucked into the wall container. When she's done, several more powerful, hacking coughs wrack Sam's tortured body before the ventilator tubing can be reattached.

Once Sam's coughing quiets, Dr. Kulikowski bends over him, his stethoscope flashing quickly over Sam's chest, pausing at each area only long enough for the ventilator to cycle.

"Dammit! I was afraid of this. His lungs are full of crackles. Knowing he's got the blood clots and now the way he's bucking the vent really bad and the bloody secretions, I think we're looking at a PE. Bolus him with eighty units of Heparin per kilo and then start him on a Heparin drip protocol...We'll be in danger of a major hemorrhage here, folks, so, from this point, there are to be absolutely NO arterial sticks or invasive procedures that aren't one-hundred percent necessary...and give him three-quarters of a milligram of Dilaudid by IV push. He can have up to a total of a milligram and a half depending on his pain response. With the bleeding risk, I don't want him thrashing around and the Dilaudid ought to give us better pain control than the Morphine."

_PE? Hemorrhage? What's that mean? _A wave of guilt and uncertainty rolls over me. I'd almost left Sam. And for what? I couldn't be sure that the Crossroads Demon would even agree to new terms. Coughing up blood can't be a good development. What if I had left, failed to make a new deal and Sam had died anyway? My baby brother would have died alone. Sammy doesn't deserve to die, but he deserves it even less to die alone.

A voracious need to touch Sam, to draw strength from the contact, washes over me and I push through the crowd with a steely determination. This time, I won't allow them to shove me away. As I slip my hand into Sam's, I feel him wrap his fingers around mine just as he did so many years ago and I know I've made the right decision.

"I'm here, Sam. I was wrong. There's only one place I need to be and that's here...with you."

Sam's grip on my hand tightens a little in a squeeze of affirmation and I know he's heard me and understands. But it's not until I see the tension in his muscles drain away and Sam relax into the gentle flow of the vent that I suddenly realize that no matter how flawed I am, no matter how many times I've screwed up, no matter what happens, my little brother will always believe in me.

**DDDDDD**

The frenzy that had encircled Sam finally dissipated and, realizing that I wasn't going to let go of my baby brother again, Olivia had seen to it that a nicely padded chair had been slid in so that I could get off my throbbing ankle.

It's been close to an hour since I'd made the incredibly stupid decision to walk away from my brother. Now that I've had time to settle into the chair at Sam's side and think about it, I realize that I wasn't walking out so much to make things right for Sam. Sure, I would do anything I can to see Sam through this, but if I was truly honest with myself, I was walking out because I needed to make this right for me, make the whole thing not my fault. Thing is, no deal with any Crossroads Demon is going to be able to change that and in trying to do so, I could have let my brother down in the worst possible way.

"For better or for worse, Sammy, I'm sticking by you."

_That's all I've ever wanted, Dean._

Dr. Ku had ordered additional pain medication and it had taken the whole milligram and a half before Sam's agonized writhing had slowed and his body relaxed. Still, he'd fought the sedative effect for more than a half an hour, forcing his leaden eyelids open abruptly each time they'd droop shut. Each time they'd snap back open, the way his hand clung to mine and the half-panicked look in his eye told me that he had a need to know I was still there. It wasn't until I'd started combing my fingers through the gentle curls of hair near the nape of Sam's neck and whispering quiet assurances that I was staying at his side, that he finally allowed himself to slide back into the darkness. Afraid that he'd become upset again and hurt himself if he didn't hear my voice, I've just continued to talk...just babbling about anything and everything.

"Doc says the venom's messing with your clotting mechanism or something, Sammy. I don't really get it. You, though...you'd understand it. I mean, you're the college boy, right?"

_Don't sell yourself short, Dean. I don't know anyone other than Dad that has the smarts to outwit even half of the supernatural beasties you've faced. Anyway, I studied law, dude, not medicine. That shit confuses me just as much as it does you._

I pull yet another tissue from the box and dab at the few drops of blood trickling from Sam's left nostril. When I'm done, I toss it into the trash can with the ten or so other blood-soaked Kleenex that I had already deposited there.

"It doesn't make much sense to me...how the venom can cause too much bleeding and too much clotting at the same time. Just seems contradictory, you know? But that's what Dr. Ku says...called it some long, doctor's mumbo-jumbo...disintegrated vascular thing-a-ma-jig or something..."

"Disseminated Intravascular Coagulation...or DIC, for short."

"Huh? Oh, hi, Olivia. Is Sammy ok? I didn't hear any of the alarms going off."

"Oh, no, nothing like that. Sorry, Dean. I was just coming in to check on him. I didn't mean to intrude on your private conversation."

"That? Oh, just talking to let him know I'm still here. Not that it really does all that much for him..."

_You'll never know just how much it __**does **__do for me, bro._

"Oh, I don't know. From what I saw, it looks like you're the best medicine Sam could have. Just having you here seemed to get him calmed down so that we could get the PE treated faster."

"Yeah, well, I almost made the mistake of walking out on him once. I won't be making it again. The ICU better be prepared to have me at his side at all times."

"I'm sorry, I thought Dr. Ku had told you. There aren't any beds available in ICU. Someone was supposed to be moved up to a regular room today and Sam was going to get that bed. But that person's labs didn't come back as good as their doctor had hoped and they're spending at least one more night in ICU. We're just going to have to hold Sam here in the ER tonight where we can dote on him some more..."

Olivia places a hand compassionately on my shoulder and gives me a conspiratorial wink.

"...and maybe get his stoic older brother to agree to some of his own TLC."

_Listen to her, dude. You can't ignore your own health...just because of me._

"So Sammy's doing ok?"

_Ooo, smooth one, Dean. You always could steer anyone's concern away from yourself._

"He won't be if you continue to ignore your health and can't be here with him because you're stuck in a hospital bed of your own."

_Ouch, bro! It has to hurt that she didn't fall for the curve ball you tried pitching at her. Sure seems like this Olivia chick is going to give the great Dean Winchester a run for his money_!

"I'm fine, Olivia. It's just a twisted ankle."

"No, it's a _broken _ankle...plus badly bruised ribs and a deep gash on your leg that stands more than a good chance of getting infected because you won't take the antibiotics you ought to. That stream was loaded with all kinds of bacteria. It's not like you took a dip in the clean, chlorinated pool at the local YMCA, you know."

_She's got a point, dude. I'd like to see you try to scoot out of that one._

"Yeah, well, it's my choice, isn't it?"

_Oh, yeah...when you can't win through logic, win through pouting. Channeling our inner five year old again, Dean?_

"Ok, Dean, I give up. But you remember Betty?"

"That old battleaxe? You know those heart monitor patches you guys put on my chest when I passed out? She tore six layers of hide off me when she ripped them off! Where'd she get her training, the Marquis de Sade School of Nursing?!"

I can't help but shiver at the memory of the hulking, grey-haired woman. Her attitude, no-nonsense style and obvious sadistic enjoyment of inflicting pain could have made her a clone of the whacked out nurse, Annie Wilkes, from the Stephen King novel, Misery. I'd half expected her to take a swing at my other ankle with a sledgehammer just to hobble me.

"Um hmmm. You screw around and end up on your back again and I'll see to it that Betty's assigned to be your nurse."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

_Ha, ha, ha. She's just as stubborn as you are, dude._

"Oh, alright. I'll take the antibiotics...but only if I don't have to leave Sammy in order to do it."

As Olivia stands at the sink filling a small plastic drinking cup with water, she turns and looks at me over her shoulder.

"I thought you might say that, so I came prepared. Now stick out your hand."

Olivia reaches into the pocket of her scrubs and produces a small plastic packet with a foil peel-top. When I lift my outstretched palm towards her, she pulls the foil back and drops a large brown and yellow capsule into my hand.

When I hesitate and stare angrily at the capsule, she beckons at me with the water cup.

"Look, it's either bottoms up or Betty...your choice."

I glare my displeasure at her before I finally toss the pill into the back of my mouth and wash it down with a couple swigs of the cool fluid.

"Happy now?"

"Would be if you'd come to your senses about the pain pills, splint and crutches."

I can't help but laugh out loud at Olivia's pluckiness, but refuse to capitulate any further.

A sparkle of humor flashes in Olivia's blue eyes and a wry smile curls her ruby lips.

"Alright, alright. I know when to cut my losses and move on. I'll let you know when it's time for your next dose."

Before I can argue, she disappears through the open door and Sam and I are once again left alone.

"Oh, I bet you would have enjoyed the hell out of that, Sammy..."

_Damn straight, I enjoyed it! Oh, that was rich! She certainly manhandled you, didn't she? God, Dean, I like her...I really, __**really **__like her._

"So where were we, anyway? Oh, yeah, that DIC stuff...Dr. Ku says its causing your nosebleeds _and _the blood clots they found in your legs. One of 'em broke off and was swept into your lung through your bloodstream..."

_So that's why my chest hurt so bad and I couldn't breathe again._

"...He woulda started you on another medicine...I think he called it a 'clot buster'...that would have dissolved the clots, but Doc says it'd be too dangerous. He said it was a huge risk even putting you on the blood thinner medication you need but, without it, you could form more clots in your lungs or even have a heart attack or stroke..."

_Isn't it just like us Winchesters, bro? We've always got our backs to the wall and end up doing stuff we shouldn't just because we're between a rock and a hard place._

"...Heparin...that's the blood thinner I was saying about...they say using it during that DIC stuff is sorta controversial. Some docs say do it, and some say don't. The DIC from the venom alone causes bleeding...and the Heparin might make it worse. You oughta see your legs, bud. It looks like you have the measles...but Dr. Ku said they're pinpoint hemorrhages under the skin...and you've got bruises everywhere..."

_Great. Not only did I have visions like some freak, now I'm gonna look like one, too._

"...because of all that, Dr. Ku's afraid the Heparin's gonna cause a major hemorrhage...but that's not gonna happen, is it?...you're not gonna go along with what's expected...I mean, come on...you're so damned hard-headed and stubborn..."

_Me! What about you, Dean? I'm not the one gimping around on a broken ankle because I'm too much of a pig-head to get it taken care of._

"...You know, your stubborn streak came out early, Sammy...You couldn't have been much more than three or four at the time...You wanted so badly to do things on your own...pour the milk into your Lucky Charms without my help...tie your shoes...brush your teeth...But that motel where Dad had left us in Union Springs, Alabama..."

_Ugh. That was a pit, even by our standards, wasn't it?_

"...you couldn't reach the sink...or see in the mirror...but you just _had_ to brush your teeth by yourself...You wouldn't let me hold you up to do it...or stand on the weapons chest like a stool, either...God, you pitched such a fit...Next thing I know, you're standing on the closed toilet seat, leaned way over to reach the sink, an ungodly amount of white froth just billowing outta your mouth like some rabid animal...You must have put half the damned tube of toothpaste on that brush...You had finished brushing and were rinsing the toothbrush when your foot slipped and you fell...clipped your chin on the counter on your way to the floor and busted it wide open...blood everywhere..."

_Yeah, I remember that. Still got the scar under my chin to prove it, too._

"I spent the next half hour stitching you back up...I was scared shitless...first sutures I had to do without Dad being there...but you didn't even cry or nothing...When I asked you if you were ok, you smiled at me and said, 'I brushed my teef by myseff, Dean!'...you were so frickin' proud of yourself..."

_I still can't figure out why Dad didn't kill me for wasting all that toothpaste...and for getting hurt because I didn't follow orders._

"...I just couldn't let it come back to bite you in the ass...I never told you this, but I used the last of the birthday money Bobby had given me so I could get a new tube of toothpaste before Dad got back and found out you wasted so much...and I told him I got too rough showing you a new defensive move and that's how you got cut...I lost TV privileges for a month and had to pull weapon cleaning duties every night instead..."

_You spent the last of your money and got grounded for me?_

"...but, you know what, Sammy? It was worth it...seeing you so happy...so proud of yourself...it was worth every minute of it."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: Chapter 8's title is another successful cover song by Three Dog Night from their 1969 debut album, "Three Dog Night". Originally written and performed by Randy Newman, "Bet No One Ever Hurt This Bad" comes from his self-titled 1968 debut album. Taken in the brotherly love context, the lyrics describe Dean's emotional pain so well...and the title works well for Sam's physical pain. 


	9. Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

**Disclaimer:**

**A/N: **My deepest apologies for the slow turn-around time of this chapter (long after it was promised). Real life got in the way...and then my muse went on strike right along with the network writers...and, well, this chapter's just been a real bitch to write. It's also the first chapter in this fic that I'm not 100 percent happy with but I couldn't delay posting any longer. And in case you forgot, another quick reminder that this is _**NOT**_ a death fic. Doesn't mean I won't push as close as I can get but, hey...

* * *

_Do not stand at my grave and weep  
I am not there; I do not sleep.  
I am a thousand winds that blow,  
I am the diamond glints on snow,  
I am the sun on ripened grain,  
I am the gentle autumn rain.  
When you awaken in the morning's hush  
I am the swift uplifting rush  
Of quiet birds in circled flight.  
I am the soft stars that shine at night.  
Do not stand at my grave and cry,  
I am not there; I did not die._

_-_ Mary Elizabeth Frye (1905-2004) -Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep_ -_

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 9: Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep**

"...and remember how that vein Dad had along his left temple would start to quiver when he'd get pissed? Oh, Jesus, Sammy...that trip to Omaha, you had that vein jumping and jiving like I'd never seen, just asking the same questions over and over and over again. You were just non-stop chatter and I thought for sure Dad was gonna blow a gasket..."

_You and me, both._

"...But then the incessant jabbering just stopped. It wasn't like you'd run out of things to say and just faded out...No, it just stopped...like someone had flipped some switch. I saw Dad's shoulders actually droop in relief that you'd finally given up. Next thing I know, Dad's got the brake pedal jammed to the floorboards and the Impala's skidding to a stop on some back-country road. His eyes were glued to the rearview mirror and his knuckles were absolutely white on the steering wheel..."

_It's all a bit fuzzy but I'm not sure I'll ever forget the look on his face...or the panic I felt. They're about the last things I remember...until we reached the motel._

"...Before Dad could get the car into park and rip open the back door, you'd already passed out. He pulled you outta there limp as some dishrag. You weren't breathing and your lips were already turning blue..."

_Guess that explains why I don't remember much._

"...Dad flipped you over his knee like you weighed nothing at all and hammered one of his huge paws down on your back...right between your shoulder blades. It was probably on the fifth swing, a LifeSaver candy popped out and fell to the ground. Seems odd, you know, a candy called LifeSaver and it almost took yours. Anyway, Dad gave you five or six breaths before you finally took a gasp of your own and he piled us back into the Impala. We took a room at the very next flea-bag motel we could find and Dad spent a sleepless night with us pulled up close to him. He just couldn't seem to let go...almost like he was afraid if he did, we weren't gonna be there anymore. And that vein of his, it wasn't quivering in anger, it was pulsating...in fear...fear that he'd lose us. I never saw it pulsate like that ever again...until the night you walked out that door for Stanfo-..."

"Dean? I'm sorry to interrupt again..."

"No, no. That's ok, Olivia. What's up?"

"I know you said there was no one to call...but there's a Mr. Singer, I think it is, that's calling. Says this is the fifth hospital he's called. Sounds pretty panicked, if you ask me. He's inquiring if a Dean or Samuel Winchester is here. I can't give him any information without your permission. What would you like me to do?"

"I should have known he'd come looking for us. I'll talk to him."

I rise to follow Olivia to the nearest phone and every muscle in my body launches a simultaneous protest. I'm not sure which came first, Olivia's offer to bring a portable phone to Sam's bedside or my less than macho groan. Either way, I'm more than happy to stay at Sam's side and the pretty brunette nurse soon slips a cell phone labeled "ER #2" into my hand. I take a large, steadying breath before facing the voice at the other end; before having to admit that I'd fucked up yet again.

"B-obby?"

Dammit! My voice wasn't supposed to do that. I was supposed to be able to hold it together, not break down like some girl.

"Dean? Jesus, Dean! You were due to check in with me almost two days ago! And then I've got to resort to locating you by calling five different local hospitals? You better be dying for all the grey hairs you've given me this time!"

Anything I was prepared to say and any bravado I'd mustered up to do it with disappeared the moment I heard the words uttered by that gruff but familiar voice. Suddenly, I feel again like the sad, lost little boy I'd been when I'd first met the rough-around-the-edges sometimes salvage yard owner, sometimes hunter. We haven't spoken but a few times since Cold Oak and those horrible memories of Sam dying in my arms wash over me without warning, stealing my thoughts and my voice.

"Dean? Dean!"

"Bobby..."

My voice has come out as little more than a whisper. Anything more and I know I'll lose control.

"Oh, my God...oh, no..."

Although he's a thousand miles away, I can feel the terror in Bobby's voice.

"...Dean, where's Sam? Is Sam ok? Oh, God, no."

"They...they're not...it was my fault, Bobby...they're not sure...Sammy might die and I'm to blame..."

"Dean, slow down. What are you talking about? Just tell me what happened..."

_**S&DS&DS&D**_

**Four hours later**

Somewhere along the way, night fell without even a passing notice from me; the hours spent waiting for Bobby to arrive and hoping for my little brother to awaken. I don't think I would have even realized night had come if it hadn't been for the brilliant strokes of lightning that illuminate the ebony-shrouded world outside Sam's tiny window. The small portal offers me little view of the outside world, but I don't need to see outdoors to know that Nature's fury is lashing out with all it has.

What had begun hours ago as fat, earnest drops and flourished into a wind-driven rain has slowly matured into an angry deluge befitting Noah. The occasional buzz of radio chatter from County Communications to fire and EMS crews and the ER, itself, had grown right along with the storm until a steady stream of weather updates mingled with the sounds of monitors, IV pumps, ventilators and telephones.

The wind has gained strength, too, and now it blows with a howl so wicked that even black dogs have never sounded so evil and wrathful. I'm certain that the first rays of dawn will shed light on a landscape littered with wind-strewn debris. Right now, I could care less. The inside world, the one that revolves around my brother, **my **world, is already shattered and broken.

My time at my little brother's side has marched inexorably on, measured not in hours, not in minutes nor even seconds, but by an ever-growing mound of crimson-stained tissues. The occasional trickle of blood from Sam's nose has become a steady dripping that's already blown through one box of Kleenex and the addition of the slow oozing that's sprouted from around the trach incision threatens to overwhelm a second one.

Olivia had packed gauze around the trach site, explaining that it was impregnated with antibiotics to help prevent infection. She had said they hoped the packing would slow the bleeding, but she's been in twice already to change the sodden dressings and the most recent one's saturated with bright red blood and in need of changing again.

I take yet another tissue and swipe at a drop of blood that rolls down Sam's neck from the soggy, blood-soaked trach dressing and deposit it in the small, bedside trash can. I watch in bewildered amazement as the teetering mountain of Kleenex spills over the bin's edge in a silent, red avalanche of gore-laden puffs.

_Holy crap! When did there get to be so many of them? _

Only then do I realize the clock-like regularity of wiping blood, first from Sam's face and then from near the trach. I've somehow allowed the seeming endlessness of that pattern to lull me into an absent-minded ignorance of everything else and I look over my kid brother's still form with a growing sense of shock and alarm.

A pang of guilt stabs through me that if I had not become so distracted, I would have noticed that the bleeding is no longer confined just to Sam's nose and trach incision. Droplets of blood have begun to seep from just about every area where Sam has been stuck for blood tests, as well as from around his IV catheters. As if that's not enough, the fluids and bloody ooze that continue to leach from his bloated right arm have soaked yet another large absorbent pad.

Whatever skin wasn't already bubbled and blistered on Sam's right arm is now so taut from swelling that the areas of vivid reds and purples have taken on a stark, shiny, almost plastic-like appearance. More frightening, though, is that the deep black coloring that mars the underside of Sam's distended hand has overrun his palm, a wide dark streak having edged its way half the distance up his forearm.

The surprising pallor of Sam's skin is matched by its unnerving coolness and punctuated sharply by an odd mottling of color that leaves his legs and arms with a disconcerting lacy effect of bluish-purples. The pinpoint hemorrhages that had been confined to Sam's lower legs have now extended beyond his knees and a thin smattering of them peppers his torso, as well. But it's the dusky, blue-gray hue of Sam's toes and fingers that brings the bile creeping up the back of my throat.

_His legs and fingers shouldn't look like that. They shouldn't be bluish. He's on a ventilator. He should be getting plenty of oxygen. Something's not right!_

My eyes flit anxiously over the respirator; waiting, watching. Everything seems ok. The machine cycles regularly, no alarms, no flashing warning lights and no high pressure tones. I don't see my kid brother struggling against the vent, but Sam has been unresponsive since slipping back into the darkness that had surrounded him before the pulmonary embolism...before my stupid attempt at leaving him. I don't know, maybe something's wrong and Sam can't tell me...can't let me know.

I grind the nurse's call button down and know the alarm has gone out when the indicator light gleams above Sam's bed. I squirm nervously, eyes darting fretfully back and forth from my brother to the doorway. I know it hasn't been long, but it feels like an eternity until Olivia's delicate figure slips through the door.

"What can I do for y-..."

"It's Sammy. S-something's wrong. I...I don't understand. He's on the vent...but his legs, his fingers...they're...they're blue. And the blood...it's...it's coming from everywhere. What's happening to my brother?! What's going on?!"

My words come out in such a rush that I'm not even certain they're intelligible until Olivia begins checking over Sam's monitors and ventilator. When she turns the catheter collection bag that hangs from the frame of Sam's bed to check it, I see that there's very little in the bag. What's more shocking is that what urine there is, is no longer the light, golden yellow you'd expect. Instead, the fluid in the bag is dark; strangely similar in color to Coca-cola.

Olivia removes the automatic blood pressure cuff that was strapped around Sam's left upper arm and had been set to check a reading every half hour. Underneath, an intense circumferential bruising stands out dramatically on Sam's nearly translucent skin. She grabs a manual cuff from a basket mounted on the wall at Sam's head and wraps it carefully, but snugly, around his left forearm.

"Why'd you put that down there?" I point at the cuff's unusual position on Sam's forearm instead of his upper arm.

"I can't use the upper arm any longer, Dean. The bruising from the automatic cuff is too significant. If we continue to do pressures there we could cause enough swelling to compromise circulation to the rest of Sam's arm or cause permanent nerve damage."

Placing her stethoscope in her ears, she lays the bell onto the pulse point at Sam's wrist and pumps the ball only a few times. Her brow furrows as she slowly allows the air to rush back out and my pulse rate quickens at the sight of her reaction.

_Oh, God. It's not good. I know it isn't. It can't be good or she wouldn't have that look on her face. She's trying hard not to show it, but she's freaked. _

Olivia turns from the bed, riffles through a nearby cabinet and returns to Sam's side with what almost looks like an outlandish blending of a stethoscope and an old iPod.

"W-what's that?"

The nurse dabs a layer of clear jelly onto the pulse point at Sam's left wrist and smears it around a little with the crazy-looking instrument.

"This is called a Doppler stethoscope. It's a small, hand-held ultrasonic stethoscope. It's much more sensitive than a normal stethoscope."

The brunette places an earpiece in each ear, settles the Doppler on Sam's wrist, holds down a small button on the machine and listens intently. Once she's located Sam's pulse, she pumps the BP cuff a few times and listens again. One more pump of the cuff and she slowly begins to release the air, her face a study in concentration.

When she's done, she straightens and removes the earpieces from her ears, her eyes wandering over Sam's body and then his monitors and IV pumps as she gently wipes the gel from his wrist. I find her silence unnerving and, although I probably won't like what I'll hear, I have to know how my kid brother's doing.

"How is he? Is his pressure ok?"

Olivia looks up suddenly as though my voice has startled her from her thoughts and she answers my questions with a non-answer.

"I need to go update Dr. Ku."

Before I can say anything more, the rattled nurse is gone and I'm left to drown in my own tortured thoughts.

_**S&DS&DS&D**_

"Don't you worry about her, Sammy. You just hang on, ok? Remember I told you that Bobby's on his way? He's coming. But this weather, it's slowing him down..."

_I'm glad Bobby's gonna be here for you. You need someone with you. _

"...So you've just got to hang on. Once Bobby gets here...he'll know what to do. He'll pull some obscure ritual or something outta his bag of tricks. The old codger's got a million of 'em. He'll fix this...somehow."

_And what if he can't fix this, Dean? What then? What are you going to do? I'm glad Bobby's coming. I need to know there's someone here for you because it's not working, Dean. I don't think I'm gonna be able to do this. I'm really tired. Too tired, Dean. _

"Bobby'll fix it somehow. I just need you to hang on, keep fighting. We were supposed to have more time. It can't end like...Dr. Ku?"

"Hey, um, sorry for intruding. It's just...well, Olivia...she, uh, she gave me the latest updates."

Doctors, they're always such self-assured bastards. They're so goddamned aloof; so confident, so certain that every stroke of their pens, every word from their mouths, is a life-changing, earth-shattering moment. It's like they think they're God or something.

But Dr. Ku has been different from the start. He's shot straight from the hip. No pompous posturing and no delusions of grandeur. Just a straightforward, down to earth, tell it like it is kind of guy. And that's what disturbs me now. Because now, he's hesitant and skirting around instead of heading right for the point. It's obvious he's got something to say that he really doesn't want to and that realization makes my blood run cold.

"Sammy...he's doing ok, right?"

I want to ask a million questions more, but there's a huge lump in my throat. I can feel the prickle of tears well up behind my eyes when I hear the young doctor blow out a sigh of resignation before beginning.

"Dean, there's no easy way to say this, but we're out of options. We've tried adding vasopressive meds along with Sam's other IV's to bump up his blood pressure and we've gotten a negligible response. We've also hung unit after unit of fresh frozen plasma to boost Sam's clotting factors and we've withdrawn the Heparin as far as we dare. And, still, we've seen little to no change in the uncontrolled bleeding..."

_Dean, what they're doing...it's not working...and I don't think I can do this any longer. I'm just so tired. I don't think I can beat this. _

"...The bag of antivenom that's hanging now brings us up to a total of fifty vials and we're still not seeing any real resolution in Sam's bloodwork..."

"I don't care, Doc. Sammy's gonna pull through this. He has to. And we're going to do everything we can to help him or I'm gonna find a doctor who will!"

_It's not him, Dean, it's me. Please don't blame him. That's not fair. He's done everything he can to help me, but the medicine's just not working. I can see that now...and it's ok, Dean. I'm just too tired to keep doing this. I just can't fight anymore. _

"That's not what I'm saying, Dean, and you know it. I told you we'd do everything we can and I'm not backing down on that promise. I just think you need to start facing the stark truth that our best isn't good enough. Your brother's no longer triggering the vent at all, he's completely unresponsive, even to painful stimuli, and his urine output is almost non-existent. What little urine he _is_ making is dark because Sam's kidneys are shutting down. Dean, we've fought and Sam's fought, but we're starting to slide over the slippery slope into multi-system organ failure..."

_I don't want to go, but I can't stay here. The pain...it's reaching in from everywhere now. I was able to escape it before...let the darkness wash over me. But it's not working anymore. I can't take much more of this, Dean. I've fought and I'm just too tired to keep on fighting. I can't stay. _

"He's gonna make it, Doc! Sammy is _**not **_gonna die! I can't lose my brother. I just can't. He's all I've got left, Doc. He just needs more time and medicine."

"Two things that are in short supply, Dean. I just don't know how much more Sam's body can take. I don't know how much longer he can hold on..."

_I can't, Doc. It's time for me to let go. It's time for Dean to let me go. Please, I can't do this. I'm too tired and it hurts too much. Please, just let me slip away._

"...Dean, the three hundred or so cc's that's left in this bag...it's the last of the antivenom we were able to get hold of. We have more on the way from Loma Linda but the storm's washed out the shortest route. If it doesn't get here within the next hour..."

"It will! I'm not giving up on Sammy."

_I can't fight this. I can't keep fighting a losing battle. Dr. Ku's right...you've got to start facing the truth; start facing it that I'm just not going to win this one no matter how much you want it._

"If the supply doesn't get here in the next hour, we'll have no more antivenom to give. There will be nothing more to counteract the venom still in Sam's system; nothing to hold his symptoms at bay. If it reaches that point..."

"I told you, it won't!"

"But if it _does_...if we can't get more antivenom, it might be...it might be kinder to Sam to...uh...to..."

"What?! Withdraw all treatment?! Take him off the vent?!"

"I know it's a shitty choice. I really wish I had more choices, better choices. But, ultimately, withdrawing life support may be our only choice, Dean. Even if the antivenom _does _arrive within the hour, there's no guarantee that it will change anything. You need to understand that Sam's condition is very grave. Despite our best efforts, all signs point to the likelihood that we're going to lose Sam anyway."

"Get out! Just get out! I'm not going to lose my brother! I can't! Just get out of here and leave us alone!"

I watch with an angry glare as the young doctor retreats from the room. He stops at the doorway and looks back at the two of us, an expression of defeat on his face.

"If you need anything, or want to talk with me, just let Olivia know."

Seconds later, Sam and I are once again alone and the anger I feel overwhelms me.

"Can you believe that guy, Sammy? He's all but written you off!..."

_Dean, he's right. We both know you can't fight Death. I'm too tired and I hurt too much to keep this up. _

"And telling me you're in 'grave' condition. Do medical people even get the sickeningly morbid irony in that? Don't you listen to him. You are not going to leave me, Sam. You hear me? You...are...NOT...going to leave me."

_I don't want to, Dean, but there's nothing more either one of us can do. You've got to start facing this. _

"God, Sammy, how am I supposed to fix this? What am I gonna do?"

_You're going to accept it and go on, Dean. Just like we did after Dad. There isn't anything else you __**can**__ do. And it's what __**I **__want you to do._

"This isn't right. This shouldn't be happening. Who's gonna watch my back?"

_Bobby's never let us down before, Dean. He's on his way. You know he'll be there for you. He was there for you in Cold Oak. Why would he turn his back on you now?_

"Who else knows what I'm thinking? I mean, sometimes it's almost scary how you seem to know where my thoughts are headed, what I'm gonna do next...even before I do. That kind of stuff doesn't happen just because someone decides to partner up with you. Sure, I can hunt with someone else...but...but...it's not the same. Not even with Bobby. Don't get me wrong, Sam. Bobby's great. I mean, hell, he's almost like a second father to us..."

_I know you'll never admit it, but we both know there were times when Bobby was more of a father to us than even our own Dad knew how to be. Think about it, Dean. The last time Dad and Bobby talked it was with Bobby aiming the business end of a shotgun at him. Dad just couldn't give up his single-minded obsession. The hunt always came first. You were so sick and yet Dad wouldn't let up; not on the hunt, not on you. You almost died because of it. I'd never seen Bobby so pissed and he never forgave Dad for that. Even went so far as to tell Dad that if he was gonna push so far, so hard that he was gonna end up killing his own kids, he'd take him out right there. He stood by us then, he'll stand by you now...stand by you when I can't. Because I just can't do this anymore. Fighting just hurts too much._

"...but Sammy, you're my brother...and I know I don't say this often enough..."

_It's ok, Dean. It's just your way. Just like it was __**my **__way to say **too much** to Dad. Life sure would have been a lot easier for all of us if I'd only realized before it was too late that Dad wasn't the only one being stubborn and saying things he really didn't mean. _

"Oh, who am I kidding? I never _**say**_ it...not out loud, anyway...and it's wrong, Sammy...but I say it in here...I mean, come on, you're my brother, and I need you...you can't leave me, please."

_I know that, bro. Even when I was at Stanford and we didn't talk, I knew you needed me, loved me. And I love you, too...but it's time, Dean. It's time to let me go. I've fought this. I really have. I've fought this harder than anything I've ever done, but I'm tired. I just don't have any fight left, Dean, and it's time to let me slip away. It's time to accept the inevitable and let go. I don't want you to spend your life wallowing in grief and self-imposed guilt. It was an accident...and even though I've got to go, I want you to live. And when it's really, really quiet, you'll hear me. Because I'm always gonna be there...I'll always be with you, Dean._

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: Although absolute proof of authorship cannot be confirmed, it is commonly accepted that "Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep" was written by Mary Elizabeth Frye, a housewife from Baltimore, Maryland (USA). The originally untitled verse, written in 1932, has universally come to be known by its first line. According to Mary Frye, the poem was written to comfort a young German Jewish friend whose mother had passed. Due to the anti-Semetic feelings in Germany at the time, the young girl was unable to return home and "stand at my mother's grave and shed a tear", an emotional prompt that spurred Mrs. Frye into writing her verse. Her first attempt at writing, Mrs. Frye's now-famous poem was originally scrawled onto the back of a brown paper shopping bag. 


	10. Death Don't Have No Mercy

**Disclaimer: **All standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **This chapter sees Dean doing/saying some typically Dean-like things...but it also sees him straying far outside his normal operating procedure. I was asked by a reviewer for a "gigantically, sickening chick-flick moment" before Sam wakes up. **Kender Rock My World**, I hope this satisfies your request. And to all the other reviewers that I've not had time to contact personally...a giant cyber-hug for the wonderful reviews you've bestowed upon this humble fic of mine.

* * *

_...Whoa! Come To Your House, Y' Know He Don't Stay Long,  
Y' Look In Bed This Morning,  
Children You Find That Your Brothers And Sisters Are Gone.  
I Said Death Don't Have No Mercy In This Land..._

- Grateful Dead - Excerpt from "Death Don't Have No Mercy" -

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**Crotalus**

**Chapter 10: Death Don't Have No Mercy**

_I'm dying. I'm dying and I guess I should be scared, but I'm not. I'm just too tired...and I hurt too much. Maybe dying will be a release from it all. Maybe, then, the hurting will stop._

_But, you know, the hurting, it's just as much emotional as it is physical. I think about all of the wasted years...the regrets...the years spent fighting with Dad. We argued over everything. It didn't matter how infinitesimally small the issue was. It just mattered that it was something we could butt heads over. And butt heads, we did. A lot of it was just your run-of-the-mill everyday arguing. Dad commanding, me questioning. And Dean...Dean always in the background trying to be the peacemaker, trying to smooth things over. And then there were the other times...the times that Dad and I argued with apocalyptic ferocity. The night I left for Stanford was one of them. Even Dean couldn't make things better, couldn't draw Dad and I any closer. That night, a chasm the size of the Grand Canyon formed between Dad and I and it took so much time, so many years, and one final tragedy to finally build a bridge across it. But by that time, it was too late and Dad was gone...had sacrificed himself for his eldest son, or so I thought. It wasn't until months later that I'd finally realized Dad didn't sacrifice himself for Dean, alone. He had done it for me, too; had done it so Dean could be there for me, so he could save me. That's when I realized how much he really did love me...and just how much I'd lost._

_I think, too, about the years at Stanford. On the surface, they were perfect. Sun-drenched landscapes, great friends, good times, the chance to chase my dreams, be "normal". And then there was Jess, my beautiful Jess. She made the fairy-tale complete. But all of it, the happiness, the normalcy, it was just a blanket that I wrapped around myself to smother the pain, the loneliness and the guilt that constantly flowed below the surface. No matter how hard I tried to look and act normal, no matter how hard I tried to fit in, fact was, my existence had never been normal and never really would be. And what did I get for trying? I got my girlfriend killed._

_And, of course, there was Dean. I'd walked away from the one person that had ever loved me for who I really was. Not the fake, "normal" Sam Winchester that Jess fell in love with. No, Dean loved me just for being me . Dean raised me and he gave me everything he could. And most of all, he gave me his unconditional love. It wasn't demonstrative or flashy or even spoken most of the time...but it was there all the same. I can still see the look of hurt and betrayal on Dean's face as I walked out that night and slammed the door behind me. The whole time I was at Stanford we didn't talk and we didn't write. With the time Dean has left quickly ticking down, my heart breaks for the time that I so foolishly threw away. _

_In this moment, I wish I had it all back...the time with Dean...the time with Dad. But I know it can never be. I can feel the cold creeping in from the shadows; rolling in on a quiet fog. Somewhere in the thick, gray fog I can feel something more. I can't see it, but whatever it is, it's pulling on me like some invisible force. It's dragging me closer and closer to the darkness and farther away from Dean. _

_I don't know where it is that I'm going. I have no idea where this invisible force is going to take me. But I am certain that it's taking me from Dean and I've resisted it all this time. I've fought against it's chilling grip until I'm too exhausted to fight any more. It's as if I'm in a boat floating on storm-tossed water, a single rope tethering me to the safety of a dock. As time passes and the water roils angrily, the rope frays, strand by strand, and I feel myself drifting slowly from the sheltering protection of shore._

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"No, Dean. I'm sorry. It's still not here yet."

Olivia's been in every fifteen minutes to quietly check on Sam, his monitors, his vent, the endless bleeding and, if she was honest about it, me. I must look pretty wretched because I catch the concerned glances she throws my way, the constant inquiries of what she can get for me or what she can do for me, and the thinly veiled hints that I should worry about myself, too. I've ignored it all. Sam is my one and only concern and each appearance by the russet-haired nurse has played out virtually the same way from beginning to end.

"_Is the antivenom here yet?"_

"_No. I'm sorry it's not."_

"_You'll let me know, right?"_

"_You and Sam will be the first to know. Now, please Dean, at least eat something...or maybe I can get you a lounger to rest on. You need to get some sleep."_

"_No. I'll be fine. Sam's vital signs any better?"_

"_No. No better."_

"_Oh. I just thought maybe...but I guess not."_

"_If I can get anything for you, Dean...call me. Please?"_

"_Ok, I will."_

But she knows I won't. And the scenario has played out enough times now that Olivia no longer fools herself into thinking I will. The past few visits she hasn't even asked. A bottle of water...a vacuum-wrapped vending machine sandwich...a crisply folded blanket hung delicately over the back of my chair; their appearances in the room "coincidentally" corresponding with Olivia's checks on Sam. Each item still lays, untouched, where she placed them.

When she leaves this time, a lightly steaming cup of coffee, a creamer and two sugars sit on the small bedside table. One of those wooden coffee stirrers that sort of look like a miniature version of a tongue depressor sits atop a folded paper napkin, the words "Bottoms up or Betty?" scrawled on it in a feminine hand.

I have to chuckle at her brazen resourcefulness, but it won't work this time. I don't give a damn what Betty might do to me. It can't be as awful as sitting here, completely powerless, watching the last of the antivenom drip in and knowing Sam's only hope still hasn't arrived.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The hour, Sam's hour, has come and gone. The coffee Olivia had brought has gone cold; the bottled water grown warm. The last of the antivenom infused ten minutes ago and still nothing. No improvements from Sam, no ruggedly handsome, Hollywood-style hero dramatically bursting through the door at the last possible moment to deliver the medicine needed to save the day...nothing.

"Bobby, where _are_ you? I can't take this any more. I can't do this alone. I can't sit here...I can't sit here and just let him...Oh, God..."

I squeeze Sam's hand even tighter in mine. He's slipping away from me and maybe if I just hold on a little tighter, maybe I can keep him from getting lost, keep him from leaving.

"I know I don't have faith...I know that I've questioned your existence, even denied it...but, please God, please don't take him from me. He's the only thing I've got left...the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. He's the only reason I keep it together, keep going. I can't imagine being able to put one foot in front of the other without him. He's all that I live for. I'm so tired...and I can't make it without him. I know that I lie...I cheat...I steal...I start fights...and I bed women with appalling regularity...and I get it if I'm not worth answering prayers for...I understand that...but, Sammy...he's different...he's not damaged goods like me...there are some people that say he's evil...but he's not...not even close...he's the best, most honest person I know...he's got so much faith...so much goodness...so much innocence...please, God...this world...it has so much evil in it...please, _please _save my brother...please help him find his way back...you've gotta save him...you've gotta help Sam live."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I've never prayed before, never spoken to God like Sammy says _he_ does, and I'm not really sure what I expected to happen. I don't know, maybe I expected a nice cliched Lifetime Network, chick-flick, tearjerker kind of moment - Sam suddenly waking up, his vitals strong, the color back in his cheeks, practically bounding out of bed in his enthusiasm for life. Or maybe it should have been something more Biblical - a brilliant white light filling the room as a celestially beautiful woman dressed in flowing robes of gold descends, wings thrumming the air, arms flung wide in a beckoning gesture, as her loving and angelic presence affects a miracle cure.

Either way, I didn't get it. Nothing has changed and Sam is still slipping from my grasp. I've tried so hard to hold myself together but I'm so close to losing it, so close to breaking down, that I can feel myself trembling. It's been thirty-five minutes since the last of the antivenom infused and I'm losing hope that a miracle is just around the next corner.

I'm also losing hope that Bobby's going to get here in time and that scares the hell out of me. I don't want to do this, don't want to see my brother die...again...but I _can't _do it alone and I know it. Bobby's called three times, each time to tell me that whatever route he was on was impassable, invariably ending with a quick, "...but don't worry, Dean. Sammy's strong and come Hell or high water I'll get to you, somehow. I won't rest until I find a route that's open."

I've talked for so long my voice is going hoarse but it really doesn't matter anyway. I've run out of hopeful things to say. Instead, I sit here desperately holding onto my brother's still hand like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. I am that man. I am drowning.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"Dean! Dean!"

I hear the muffled cries only a few seconds before the sliding glass door of Sam's room crashes open noisily and Olivia tumbles in excitedly.

"It's here, Dean! The antivenom's here!"

I can hardly believe what I'm hearing and my voice spills out in a tremulous whisper.

"It's here?"

Olivia shakes her head animatedly.

"Yeah, Dean, it is. The pharmacist is mixing it as we speak."

"Thank God."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Just as with the first dose, it took almost thirty minutes before the antivenom is suitably mixed and ready to hang. Thirty minutes that I spent continuously checking my watch and scrutinizing Sam's monitors, my knee bobbing up and down nervously in eager anticipation.

Olivia returned yet again and the antivenom was hung, the IV's tiny drops of fluid resuming their delivery of the venom-neutralizing medication to my little brother and infusing me with a renewed sense of hope.

Where I had previously lost my ability to find words to say to my dying brother, I suddenly couldn't _stop_ the words from tumbling out. There were words of hope, words of encouragement, words of confident optimism. Olivia had brought more coffee, another cold bottle of water and a fresher sandwich but it all sat, idle and forgotten, as my new-found exhilaration pushed the dark words and thoughts from my brain and the crushing weight of despair from my shoulders.

But that was hours ago...hours and _hours_ ago. Despair has snuck back in on cat's paws; slowly, softly, unheard. It stalked up on me quietly, cunningly, and now I feel it's sharp, angry claws digging in.

Despite the hours of continued antivenom, Olivia reports no changes and I begin to dread her reappearances. I know I would feel differently about the attractive nurse's visits, if only she could give me something, _anything_, to grasp onto in hope. But she's back...and this time she's not alone. Dr. Kulikowski is at her side and a short, thin Korean man is with them. The pit that's growing and gnawing in my stomach instinctively tells me they aren't here for anything good.

Olivia sets about gathering information from the various monitors and equipment that surrounds Sam. After taking his blood pressure on his left forearm again, she hands Dr. Ku the paper on which she's written down everything. Once done scanning the information, the young doctor settles onto the rolling stool he seems to favor. Olivia stands slightly behind and to the left of him, the Korean man to his right.

"Dean, you already know Olivia. And this...this is Alan Kyeon. He's the hospital Chaplain."

An icy fear grips me and I can physically feel the color drain from my face. My head starts to swim and the room wobbles in and out of focus. Olivia moves from her position near Dr. Ku and, dragging a chair up beside me, sits down and reaches her arm around my back. As she pulls me closer to her, she begins stroking her hand up and down along my left bicep.

"...Dean, we got Sam's latest test results back...He's just not responding to the antivenom and now there's a small to moderate amount of blood showing up in his urine, too. Additionally, his last four or five sets of vital signs have shown a decline in his stability...the last set rather significantly."

"No. No, I won't let you do it. I told you before, I won't give up on him!

"Dean, I understand. I get it that he's your brother and you're having trouble letting him go. But, Dean...we're not helping him. We're not easing his suffering. We're only prolonging the inevitable and I think it's time for you to consider removing Sam from life support."

"I told you, no! I won't give up on him!"

Flashes of Sam standing at the foot of my bed as my heart failed, distraught but trying so hard not to show it, ping-pong through my mind. Following closely on their heels is the lingering terror of waking to a choking obstruction in my throat and memories of Sam telling me how he'd communicated with me through a Ouija board as I fought to prevent a Reaper from taking me.

"He wouldn't give up on me when the doctors said _I _was dying and I will _not _give up on him!"

"Son, there is no sin in allowing your brother's suffering to end and permitting him to enter the healing presence of the Holy Father."

"Don't! Don't you talk to me about God, Chaplain! Where was He when our mother was murdered?! Where was He when our father died?! And where is He now?! Nowhere! Because He doesn't exist!"

"You're wrong about that, son. God and his angels watch over us everyday."

The Chaplain's words, so like my mother's, cut through me like a knife, snapping through sinew and grinding against bone, until their impact boils into a barely contained rage. No longer yelling, my next words rumble out in a low, menacing growl that must only be reinforced by my cold, threatening glare.

"I...want...you...out of here. _All_...of...you. You try removing...Sam's life support...I swear...it'll be...the _last_ thing...you do."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I've lost count of the minutes that have passed since Olivia, Dr. Ku and Chaplain Kyeon slunk silently from the room in the wake of my threat. I know I should feel guilty for treating them that way...especially Olivia. She's tried so hard to look after Sam, done everything she could. But I just can't do it. I can't take Sam's only hope from him. And Olivia, standing there with them; it felt like a betrayal. How could she fight so hard to save Sammy and then go and stand in support of Dr. Ku and Chaplain Kyeon's press to withdraw Sam's treatment?

But Sam had gone a little more than an hour without the antivenom before the new supply arrived and was mixed and ready to go. An hour for the venom to ravage Sam's already weakened body. The longer I sit here, the more Sam slips away, the more he becomes lost to me, the more I become lost to myself.

I've been feeling the cracks widening; feeling my emotional walls beginning to shake and I desperately try to ground myself by reaching out to Sam. Somewhere, somehow, my bourgeoning emotions have found my voice and once the words start coming, I just can't get them to stop.

"Sam, I don't know where you are right now, but...wherever it is, you've got to keep fighting. I know you can do this. I know you can find your way back. This past year...Dad dying...you going missing for that week that Meg possessed you...Cold Oak and then the Hell Gate...and even what the crossroads deal has been doing to you...I've been trying to hold it together, Sammy. But I just don't know...If you leave me...I just don't think I'll be able to do it anymore. If you...if you can't find your way back..."

The hot sting of tears blurs my vision and an aching tightness envelops my chest. _Oh, God, I can't do this. I can't watch my brother die. I can't sit here helpless like this, just waiting for the end._

"...if you leave me...they still win, Sammy...the dark side still wins. My debt to the Crossroads Demon will still come due...That was the deal...one year in exchange for bringing you back. Even if you leave me...they'll still come for me...I'll still go to Hell. But it's ok, Sam...it's ok...'Cause if I have to sit here and watch you die...if you leave me...I'd already be in Hell anyway..."

I've tried to hold back the emotions...the fear...the terror, for so long. I just can't do it any longer and I find I'm no longer able to control my swirling thoughts...the walls that I've built so high and so thick finally come crashing down around me...the facade of grace under pressure is gone...the phony disguise of bravery in the face of adversity is peeled away...and what's left is the real me...nothing but the emotionally shattered little boy who has lost everything.

The rawness of my emotions causes a rush of hot tears to spill onto my cheeks and I don't care any more. I just don't care. The need to touch Sam, to hold him close like I did when he was a child is overwhelming and I can't stop myself. Carefully cupping my right hand behind his neck, I lean in close and press my cheek to his in a gentle hug, my pain-filled sobs punctuating the lingering embrace.

"Oh, God, Sammy...I can't let you go without saying it...without telling you...I never would have made it after Mom...after Dad...if it hadn't been for you. You're the reason I kept going. God, Sammy, I love you. I love you and I was too much of a 'man' to say it...too stupid and afraid to actually tell you...and now it's too late. I finally say it out loud and it's too late. I _love_ you, Sammy."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

_Indistinct sounds float strangely through the emptiness and penetrate the growing darkness that surrounds me. I can barely hear them and try desperately to connect them into something comprehensible. The distorted noises undulate erratically as they pierce into the depths of the shadows, filling the entire expanse with a loud buzzing. I'm really not certain what it is about the buzzing that's so disconcerting. It's not so much that it's bothersome as it is worrisome. I sense that somewhere at the farthest reaches of the sounds, deep at its origins, there's something important. I'm not sure what's so significant about it, but something is compelling me to find out. I strain to hear, to separate the buzz into its parts, but try as I might, I still can't understand it._

_A soft but earnest breeze blows across my face and the mist parts. In that briefest of moments, the buzz retreats and I hear Dean's distant voice. It's so whisper quiet that it seems to be coming from a long way off._

"...that was the deal...one year in exchange for bringing you back. Even if you leave me...they'll still come for me...I'll still go to Hell..."

_The fog comes swirling back in much too quickly and I'm left aching for more. Please! Please! I've got to know Dean's ok. Something's wrong. I know it is. He doesn't sound right. I've never heard him sounding so broken. Please! _

_Suddenly, I feel a touch of hands, strong hands, and somehow I know they're Dean's. The touch grows into a tender embrace that fills me with memories that I recall from my childhood. But the warmth and happiness that I remember are missing from this embrace, replaced instead with crushing despair, hopelessness and regrets. _

_I try to get my brain to rationalize it all, to put it all together into something understandable, but I can't. The realization burns through me that Dean is sobbing openly while tear-choked words pour from his lips._

"...God, Sammy, I love you. I love you and I was too much of a 'man' to say it...too stupid and afraid to actually tell you...and now it's too late. I finally say it out loud and it's too late. I _love _you, Sammy."

_A sudden jolt draws me back from the cold, shadowed place with such unexpected speed that it gives me the sensation of falling. Before I can understand it, the incomprehensible buzzing is gone only to be replaced by a chorus of beeps and whirrs. _

_But there is something else, too. Dean had taken a chance and in the end he'd given me the ultimate gift.. It's something he's never done before. He truly allowed himself to acknowledge and feel his own pain and opened himself to his feelings, unashamedly pouring his emotions out for all to see...for me to draw strength from._

_I latch onto Dean's love, pulling it in deep, until I can feel a warm energy spreading over me. Where I had once been overcome by exhaustion, a new vitality pulses through me and I push hard for the surface. The climb is treacherous and gruelling, but knowing that Dean is at the end, waiting for me, needing me, spurs me to keep going. I know it's not much, but curling my fingers snugly around Dean's left hand is all that I can manage now. It's a small, simple gesture, but it's one that's filled with so much meaning and I can only hope Dean understands that._

**-:-:-:-:-:-**

"...and now it's too late. I finally say it out loud and it's too late. I _love _you, Sammy."

A slight, but definite movement flutters in my left hand and I pull back from embracing my baby brother. I stare confusedly at my hand, Sam's cool, dusky fingers moving spasmodically within it.

"Sam? Sammy?"

As I stand there dumbfounded, wiping at my tear-stained face with my right hand, Sam's fingers curve tightly around my left hand. Turning quickly on my heels, I limp painfully across the room and slam through the sliding glass door of Sam's room.

"Olivia! Olivia! Dr. Ku! The antivenom...it's working!"

* * *

A/N: "Death Don't Have No Mercy" was written by Rev. Gary Davis and performed in the 1960's by the Grateful Dead. The band briefly revived the song in 1989.

And, yep...Dean just doesn't get it that it was him, not the antivenom, that truly pulled Sam back from the brink.


	11. I Never Knew How Much I Needed You

**Disclaimer: **Lots of fun (for me, anyway), no profit.

**A/N: **I'd hoped to have this posted on Dec. 24th to give everyone a holiday treat...but it didn't happen. Then I shot for X-mas day and hoped to wish everyone a Merry Christmas...and it didn't happen. I _am _managing to post today. Does it have the same impact saying happy Boxing Day?

* * *

Time and time again i've felt these wall's of plaster,  
Closing in,  
And more than once i've felt that lonely lonely feeling,  
Wondering why and where i've been,  
Just about the time, i think i can't hold on,  
You're always there to keep me hanging on...

- The Allman Brothers Band - excerpt from Never Knew How Much (I Needed You)

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 11: Never Knew How Much I Needed You**

"...and now it's too late. I finally say it out loud and it's too late. I _love _you, Sammy."

A slight, but definite movement flutters in my left hand and I pull back from embracing my baby brother. I stare confusedly at my hand, Sam's cool, dusky fingers moving spasmodically within it.

"Sam? Sammy?"

As I stand there dumbfounded, wiping at my tear-stained face with my right hand, Sam's fingers curve tightly around my left hand. Turning quickly on my heels, I limp painfully across the room and slam through the sliding glass door of Sam's room.

"Olivia! Olivia! Dr. Ku! The antivenom...it's working!"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

The young doctor straightens from listening to Sam's heart and lungs and pulls the earpieces of his stethoscope from his ears. In one swift, smooth motion the stethoscope gets hung over the back of his neck and his hands settle on his hips. I look at him with expectant eyes, but he has yet to say anything. Instead, he rubs one hand over his mouth and for the first time since I'd met him, he appears confused on just what to do next.

"And you say he squeezed your hand?"

"Yeah, Doc. He did."

"And you're sure it wasn't just reflexive? A muscle spasm, maybe?"

"No. No, way, Doc. He squeezed my hand...actually _squeezed _it. It wasn't any muscle spasm. He knew what he was doing and I'm sure of it. He's gonna wake up, Doc. I know he is."

Dr. Ku's hand scrubs over his face again and he sighs deeply. I can tell he's having trouble rationalizing everything that's happened with what I'm telling him and what he's seeing in front of him. He bows his head slightly and scratches at the base of his skull before flopping his hands down at his side.

"I really don't know what to say, Dean, but I've got to caution you not to get too hopeful just yet. His vital signs _have_ rebounded a bit, yes. And you think he showed some actual, purposeful movements. But, it's not unusual for critically ill patients to rally for a short time before their condition deteriorates rapidly. This may be what we're seeing here."

"I'm telling you, I know what I felt and I know my brother. This isn't some last minute, short-lived rally. He's not going anywhere."

"Well, I need to see continued improvements, both in his vital signs and his labwork, before I can board _that_ train. But, in light of the somewhat better vitals and the movement you say you felt, we'll keep doing what we've been doing and keep monitoring him closely. Then in two hours, we'll get another round of labs and see where that puts us. I just hope you're right about this, Dean."

"I am, Dr. Ku. I know it."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I've been at this driving thing so damned long I think my eyes are about to cross. If it wasn't for the urgency I feel to get to Sam and Dean, I would have pulled over long ago and snatched a couple winks. Wouldn't even care if there was a motel or not. It's not like I haven't ever slept in the truck.

Practically made the damned thing my home on a few hunts I did with the boys' Daddy. Hell, when you were on a hunt with John Winchester, you were _on _the hunt. Nothing else...and, unfortunately for young Sam and Dean...no one else mattered. If it meant staying out in the field for days on end until you successfully completed a hunt, well, that's what you damn well better be prepared to do. You know, it was all that hoo yaw, ex-Marine bullshit he constantly slung at the boys.

Not that John didn't love his boys. Don't get me wrong on that. Oh, he loved 'em alright. Even thought he was doing what was best for 'em by hunting and training _them_ to hunt. Trouble was, John Winchester didn't have a 'stop' button. No, with John, everything was 'go' or 'fast forward' and the boys were the ones that usually suffered for it.

Believe me, to know John Winchester was to know frustration. For all of his ability to recognize supernatural patterns and track demons, the damned fool could never see what was in front of his face when it came to his own kids.

The last time John and I ever spoke, it was over the barrel of a shotgun. John had dragged those boys half way across the country chasing some hunt. Don't even remember what it was he was after, but the boys were done in, pushed completely to their limits...and then some. And yet John kept pushing 'em, kept riding 'em to do better, to do more until he'd finally bagged his prey.

Both boys had come to my place lookin' rough and they came back from that hunt looking like they'd been ridden hard and put up wet. But Dean, now he just plain looked like Death warmed over...much worse than he had when they'd first pulled into my place. The boy most certainly looked...and acted...like he was ill. Yet all John could find time for was to berate the boy over his shooting skills, and to mandate more shooting practice, of course.

It never dawned on the damned jackass that, even at _that_ age, Dean was one of the best shots we knew. And if Dean had problems with a shot, something was wrong. When I went to talk with Dean about it, he all but collapsed into my arms.

I was sure Dean had kept things to himself, hidden his illness, afraid he'd be excluded from the hunt if he admitted it. That was, I was sure of it until Sam informed me that he had tried askin' his Daddy to let Dean sit out on that hunt because Dean had been so violently ill. But, of course, John would have none of it.

From what Sam said, the pukin' was second only to the agony that Dean had endured. Turns out Dean had been running a temperature of a hundred an' two for three days straight and couldn't hardly stand upright for the pain in his gut. Sam told me he'd tried repeatedly to get John to see it, tried to get him to acknowledge that Dean needed medical care. But they were on a hunt and John couldn't, or wouldn't, see the truth in his youngest's words.

No, instead of getting Dean to a hospital like he should have, the big ass just kept on hunting. The whole time John was filling Dean's head with his nonsensical crap about duty, honor and endurance above all else until even Dean's unwavering devotion to his Daddy wasn't enough to keep his body from rebelling.

By the time I'd beaten some sense into his Daddy and gotten them to the hospital, Dean's temperature had spiked to a hundred an' four point three, his belly was distended and as rigid as a board. The doctor had said it was peritonitis from a busted appendix, probably two days prior. Said Dean shoulda been throwin' up and in a lot of pain, 'specially before it busted, and was surprised that Dean hadn't shown it or John hadn't noticed anything.

Things were kinda dodgy for three or four days; Dean's fever still high, the abdominal infection runnin' rampant, the antibiotics slow to work and the doctors uncertain if Dean would pull through. Sam refused to leave his older brother's side and John, well, he just sat at Dean's bedside completely dumbfounded as to why Dean didn't tell him he was sick.

I talked until I was blue in the face and couldn't get John to open his eyes to what he was doin' to his boys. I coulda taken him out right then and there, but no matter how much of an ass he was, he was still the boys' father and, for their sake, I restrained myself.

My self-control didn't last long, though. That boy was no more than two days outta the hospital, still half-dead and hurtin' more than he'd ever admit, when John packed 'em up and pushed 'em into the next hunt. I tried to reason with him, but the hardheaded fool wouldn't budge. It was rash and impulsive, but I was so pissed I grabbed my twelve gauge Remington and threatened to fill John so full of buckshot that he'd light up every airport security checkpoint from here to Canada.

John left in an angry huff, muttering about how I had no right to tell him how to raise his boys. Didn't see hide nor hair of 'em for nearly eight months. Worried the hell outta me, I'll tell ya. Thought sure their Daddy had managed to get one or both of 'em killed. That's when I got a desperate call from Father Jim. Things were hot and John needed somewhere to send the boys that they'd be safe.

I never did see John again. Always figured he was too proud to have to face me and admit that maybe I had been right. The boys always came to me through Jim or Caleb or even a few times through Jefferson or Joshua. But they came and that's what mattered. Somewhere along the way I became "Uncle Bobby" and the fierce protectiveness that I'd felt for them from the start has only grown ever since.

That's why I've got to get to 'em. If things are as bad as Dean said they were and Sam...well, Dean just shouldn't be alone. Trouble has always stalked that boy and past experience has taught me that when he's left to his own devices, disaster usually isn't too far behind.

Thank God I was able to filch that California Highway Patrolman's ID a couple years back. If it hadn't been for that ID and a well-placed call to an incredibly accommodating, honey-voiced female CHP dispatcher, I'd still be stuck on some impassable route.

I'd spun her some yarn about two orphaned brothers, one critically ill, the other standing a lonely vigil at his brother's bedside. I was desperately trying to find passage through the storm-ravaged countryside to bring the boys' only relative, their long-lost uncle, to care for them.

Ok, so I suppose I'm not really their uncle. Then again, I'm not really the plain-clothes CHP officer I claimed to be, either. And, yeah, I gave the lady dispatcher the impression that the boys were four and eight. They are...give or take twenty years or so. And I never _said_ they were four and eight, I just lead her in the right direction and she made the presumptions from there. Can I help it that she's got a soft spot for kids? So, yeah, a little tug on the heartstrings here and a little jerking on her maternal instincts there and I'm cruising down the only open route in this part of the state. Even have clearance through the all of the checkpoints the CHP put up to keep looters and other opportunistic parasites from disrupting relief and evacuation efforts.

Even pushin' this bucket of rust as hard as I dare, I'm still a good hour out. And with the heavy rain swallowing up the visibility, I've pretty much been forced to a crawl. Lord knows how long it'll end up taking me to get there 'cause of that. Unfortunately, the high canyon walls of this route have obliterated any chance I have of gettin' a workable cell signal and with it, any way of letting Dean know I've found a way through.

I jam my foot a little harder onto the accelerator and pray for the rain to let up, even a little. I flip the windshield wipers to 'high', the quick thump-thump of the rubber squeegees uttering a testimony to the overwhelming effects of the blinding curtains of storm-spawned rain. I pray, too, that if Sam can't pull through, that he hangs on long enough for me to say my "goodbyes" and to be there for his brother when his world crashes down around him.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"I know you're in there, Sam. You might be lost or confused, but I know you're in there. And I know you're fighting to find your way back. I felt it when you squeezed my hand. I know you were trying to tell me not to worry...that you're not going anywhere. And neither am I, Sammy. I'm staying right here, bro."

I hear the voice as a distant whisper. The words are muffled and indistinct, too ill-defined and my thoughts too muddled to string them into anything meaningful. But, for some reason, even though I don't understand them, they fill me with a warmth and strength that I'd been missing.

And then there's the touch. I'm sure it was there before, mostly because I'm sure it's Dean and I know he's always there...no matter what. But I can't remember feeling touch for a while now. Snatches of it here and there, yes, but not sustained touch. It doesn't feel like I remember it, though. I can't really explain it, but it's almost a gentle tingling; like the prickly cool feeling of carbonated bubbles against my skin. It's strangely invigorating and I find myself relaxing into their flow.

At first the bubbly tingle starts small; just the area around my left hand. Slowly but persistently, the effervescent rush grows until it ripples over every surface of my body. Totally enraptured by the awe and wonder of it, it's several minutes before I fully perceive a new sensation. I feel as though the tingling bubbles are buoying me up, lightening my tired, heavy body and pushing me closer to the surface.

The further I move, the more defined the whisper becomes. Mostly still a soft, quiet murmuring, I can hear my name cutting through the murk and marvel at the power that's placed behind that single word. It's a power that draws me in and rejuvenates me.

The touch, too, becomes less about tingles and abstract sensations and more about contact - gentle strokes, confident squeezes and assuring caresses. For the first time in a long time I feel safe, no longer lost and uncertain. Suddenly, the thought of returning to that dark place scares me and I push through the surface.

The floating feeling is gone, replaced instead by a body that seems completely unwilling to respond. I try to move my arms and legs. I know I did it before, well at least my fingers anyway, but this time everything seems so heavy. The rather pleasant tingling has flourished into a decidedly _un_-pleasant and fiery stinging, especially in my legs. And my right arm; I can't decide which is worse, the feeling of crushing pressure or the scorching pain that radiates along its whole length.

Just as I feel myself buckling under the vicious onslaught of pain, looking once again to slip below the surface, the hushed, distorted muttering withdraws and the deep, rich timbre of my brother's voice reaches me.

"Come on, Sam. I know you can do it. They don't believe me. They don't think what you did...squeezing my hand...they don't think it was real...something you meant to do. They think it was just some muscle spasm or something. But _I _know it was real, Sammy. You did it on purpose and I _know_ you did. You gotta show 'em how wrong they are..."

I can't believe how good it feels to be so close to Dean again. But as close as I am, I'm still so far away. I try to open my eyes but I just can't seem to force them open and the effort pushes a spike of pain through my body. I clamp down on Dean's hand, hoping that the increased contact and the strength I draw from it will dampen the pain.

"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Sammy? Come on, Sammy. That's it! You did it! Come on, you can do it again! Come on, Sammy, squeeze my hand! Squeeze it again!"

I don't think I've heard Dean sound so excited since the day Dad presented him with his Colt 1911-A1 on his eighteenth birthday. Sure, Dean had used other guns over the years, but they were Dad's guns or old guns other hunters had discarded that Uncle Bobby had refurb'd. But the Colt 1911, it was Dean's and his _alone_. Bought new, just for him. Plus, in a rare show of superfluous affection, Dad had had the weapon customized with ivory grips and hand-engraving. Dean was thrilled and practically jumping out of his skin with excitement.

It's so good to see him like that again and I will my leaden arm to repeat the motion, if for nothing more than the greedy need to sustain the warmth I feel at Dean's happiness. I push and strain and still I can't get my body to cooperate. I furrow my brow in frustration, or at least that's what I tell my body to do, but I'm not sure if it really happens.

"That's it, Sam! Come on! Show 'em they're wrong about you, Sammy! Show 'em your gonna make it and squeeze my hand!"

I take Dean's ebullient encouragement as a sign that it really did happen and try once more to make my body cooperate. It takes a lot of effort, one that's slow to pay off, but eventually I feel my fingers responding and I decide I'm going to give Dean everything I have. I curl my fingers firmly around his strong, calloused hand, allowing them to loosen just briefly before clasping them even tighter.

"I _knew_ you could beat this, Sammy!"

Exhaustion washes over me and I slide below the surface again. I'm no longer frightened by the darkness because I know I've got my anchor, my brother, to keep me from slipping too far.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Twenty minutes later Olivia swings in for another check. I don't say anything to her about what I saw, what Sammy did. I know they aren't ready to believe me, Dr. Ku and Chaplain Kyeon, especially. No amount of talking's going to sway their minds, so I figure I'm just going to sit back and let Sam convince them for me.

It's not that I expect him to perform tricks on command like some circus animal. I know what he did for me took everything he had. So much so, that he's slid back into the darkness again. But, I also know that Sammy crawled out of that deep, dark place, not once, but twice. And if he can do that, he's just going to keep on fighting until he can claw his way out for good. But until he's strong enough for that, I'll have to be satisfied with Sam giving them the one thing they _will _believe - medical evidence of improvement.

I push my chair back slightly and watch silently as Olivia moves through her usual routine of checking Sam's vitals. She gives the monitor above Sam's bed a moment's attention before placing her stethoscope in her ears and taking Sam's BP at that weird forearm location.

Her back is to me so I can't see her face, but by the nearly imperceptible but rather sudden straightening of her posture, I gather that she's a bit surprised by the result. I grin inwardly but keep a stonily passive look on my face as Olivia turns, a sheepish look on her face, as she grabs for the ultrasonic, Doppler stethoscope. _Atta boy, Sammy!_

Turning back to Sam, she smears the clear jelly on his left wrist, positions the Doppler and pumps the cuff. Anxious seconds tick by as she slowly allows the cuff to deflate. Pulling the earpieces from her ears, she straightens and pauses for a minute before scribbling the numbers down on a scrap of paper she'd set on the table next to me. She hasn't said anything, but I can see that this is the strongest blood pressure Sam's had since crashing shortly after we arrived here.

She scoots back past me and makes a quick check of Sam's Foley collection bag on her way around the foot of the bed. The urine is still dark and there's still not a lot of it, but the fact that Sam's kidneys are still producing something seems hopeful.

Around the opposite side of the bed, Olivia double checks the vent and all of its connections before removing the packing around Sam's trach and replacing it with more. My heart skips a beat when I see that the removed dressing is no longer completely saturated with bloodwhite patches of untouched packing standing out like a beacon.

Olivia peels her gloves off, discarding them in a large red trash can, and I'm sure she's done for now. But she dons a new set of gloves and carefully lifts Sam's right arm until she can gently peel away the saline-soaked gauze that has prevented Sam's raw skin from sticking to the absorbent pad underneath. The arm still looks atrocious, grossly swollen and still littered with the myriad of blisters that run it's length. Using more saline-soaked gauzes, Olivia lightly washes away the fluids that continue to ooze from them and then readjusts the pillow that supports Sam's arm by punching lightly at it a few times to puff it into just the right position. After topping it with a new pad, she lines the underside of the arm with moistened gauzes and then gently places it on the padded pillow.

Although she's been gentle, the movement of the arm and the pressure of its own weight as Olivia settles it against the pillow causes a faint grimace to pass over Sam's face. Olivia pauses in her work and watches Sam for further responses but they don't come.

As she spends a few more minutes rearranging Sam's bed linens and straightening the room she seems troubled and uncertain. Just as it seems she's about to leave the room, she turns back abruptly and returns to Sam's bedside where she, once again, goes through the familiar routine of measuring Sam's blood pressure on his forearm. Afterward, she glances again at the monitors and gives me a weak, almost confused smile before throwing a quick "I'm going to check to see if his labs are back yet" over her shoulder as she brushes quickly past me and exits the room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

She's not much beyond Sam's doorway when she bumps into Dr. Kulikowski and I can hear their exchange wafting in from the hallway.

"Oh! Dr. Ku, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to run you down."

"That's ok...but where's the fire, Olivia?"

"What? Oh...yeah. Sam Winchester's labs don't happen to be back yet, are they?"

"No, not yet. Should be any time now."

"It's just...well, I was just in there again and..."

Olivia's voice drops down to an almost conspiratorial whisper and I have to really strain to hear what's said.

"...Dr. Ku, I can't explain it, but Sam's vitals keep improving. His blood pressure's the best it's been since he came in. I didn't believe it at first, so I rechecked his BP with the Doppler and it matched and then I took it again nearly twenty minutes later and it remained stable. It's not just that, though. His color is better and when I did the dressing changes to his trach and his arm, the bleeding has slowed significantly. But the real kicker is that I _know_ I saw him grimace a little when I moved his right arm. It was a pain response and I'm _certain _of it."

"Did you mention any of this to his brother?"

"No. I wasn't sure what I should..."

"Good. Until we can get the labs back and see a more complete picture of what's going on, I don't want to risk giving him any false hopes."

"Do you think it's possible? Do you really think that Sam's beating the odds?"

"What you're telling me is encouraging, but I wouldn't go getting too excited until we see those lab results."

In spite of Dr. Ku's cautious words, I can't help but grin. He might not be willing to admit it just yet, but Sammy's proving him wrong and he knows it. _I knew you had it in you, Sammy. _

"Gotta tell ya, Sammy, this is one time I'm sure glad you're a headstrong, iron-willed, hard-nosed pain in the ass."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

All along, it's taken roughly one hour from the time Sam's blood is drawn until the results come back. But this time, it's already been an hour and twenty-three minutes since the latest tests were drawn and still nothing. I'm about ready to go out of my mind and if it weren't for this damned ankle, I'd have paced a trench into the floor long ago.

I fidget impatiently for another five minutes before I can't stand it any longer and rise to go find out what's going on. Before I can even move from my spot, a hearty rapping comes from the direction of the door and I hear the glass door sliding back. The privacy curtain pushes open with a light 'swoosh' and Dr. Kulikowski steps in with Olivia following closely on his heels, an IV bag in her hand.

"Hey, Dean. Sorry you've had to wait so long but I got tied up with another patient and couldn't get away."

My mouth has suddenly gone dry and I can't croak out a response, so I just nod my head. My ears are trained on Dr. Ku but my eyes are watching Olivia. She pushes the 'Stop' button on one of Sam's IV pumps and pulls down the nearly empty bag of antivenom. She tugs a rubber plug from a port on the new IV bag with a loud 'pop' and spikes the line through the port and into the new bag. Adjusting the bag back on the hook, she taps at the line to remove a small air bubble and then pushes a green button on the IV pump that's marked 'Start'. A few seconds later the gentle whirring of the pump resumes and tiny drops begin dripping in the IV's chamber.

"We've gotten the latest round of Sam's labs back and I've reviewed his most recent set of vital signs. I can honestly say, I'm not entirely sure what to make of it all..."

I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. _"...not entirely sure what to make of it all..."_ A statement like that could swing either way. What if I'm wrong? What if Dr. Ku was right? What if the things I've been seeing are nothing more than a desperate rally by Sam's body before he succumbs?

"I'm not really sure I can explain it, but there has been a significant turn-around in Sam's vitals and the improvements in his labwork is remarkable. His clotting times are just about where I'd expect them to be with the bloodthinner he's receiving..."

"Wha-...what about his kidneys?"

"He still has a bit more improving to do in that respect before I can breathe easily, but with his blood pressures rebounding as well as they have, his kidneys will be perfusing much better. We're going to continue monitoring his urine output and tests for a while, but I expect those improvements we're wanting will be following along rather quickly now that his vitals have bounced back."

"The antivenom, he'll still be getting that?"

"Olivia just hung ten more vials of antivenom. When this bag is done, if Sam's vitals and labs remain stable, we'll hang an additional five vials to prevent any set-backs. That'll make sixty-five vials total. Worst envenomation I've ever seen only needed forty...until now, that is."

"So everything looks good?"

"Well, Sam_ is_ running a low-grade temp right now. It's not necessarily terribly concerning since rattlesnake envenomations will sometimes cause elevations in temperature that have nothing to do with infection. But, considering the trip you two took down that stream, and because of the fact that Sam's on the vent, I've gone ahead and ordered another portable chest X-ray. I just want to make sure he's not brewing an early pneumonia. The earlier we catch and treat something like that the better."

"But he's already on antibiotics, right? How could he get pneumonia?"

"Even though he's on antibiotics, it's still possible to get an infection if the particular med we have him on doesn't fight off the particular germ that's causing the problem. As I said, though, I really don't think this is a pneumonia. His lungs are pretty clear and his temp isn't all _that_ elevated. I'm just being very cautious, here. Sam's recovery is damned near to a miracle, I'm not about to jeopardize that by not covering all the bases."

_Recovery. He used the word 'recovery'. __**Sam's **__recovery. _Thoughts and emotions are tumbling through my head so quickly that I can't think. I thought I'd have a lot to say, but now I can't think of anything. I just stand here dumbfounded and laughing, my eyes darting back and forth between Dr. Ku and Olivia, searching their faces to make sure I haven't heard wrong.

Olivia's beautiful face is lit up with a smile a mile wide and I know I've heard it right. Sammy's gonna make it. He's actually gonna make it!

"So...so...he's gonna...Sam's gonna..."

"Yeah, Dean. I think I'm ready to say now that Sam's beaten the odds. I still don't know how he did it, but it looks like he has. It looks like Sam's gonna make it."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

A low rumble fills the hallway outside of Sam's door, a light, but high-pitched whine accompanying it before the noises stop and a knock reverberates off the doorframe.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to step out in the hall. I'm Jeff and this is Andrea. We're from Radiology and we need to do a portable chest X-ray. We'll only be a minute and then you can come right back in."

I knew Sam was getting better. He'd all but told me so when he squeezed my hand. But I'm still so overwhelmed to have heard the doctor confirm it, actually say it out loud that Sam would live, that I quietly allow myself to be herded out into the hallway by the young X-ray technicians.

The low rumble and high-pitched whine return as the portable X-ray machine is pushed into Sam's room just seconds later. The glass door and privacy curtain are both slid shut and I'm left alone in the hallway with my thoughts.

I guess it's the combination of my ankle throbbing like a mother and the swirling thoughts and emotions but I feel a little lightheaded. I push my back against the wall and slowly slide down until I'm seated on the floor. I'm so dizzy that I try drawing my knees up so that I can rest my head down on them.

My right ankle is so swollen and tight that I can't get it to bend to the correct angle and I'm forced to leave that leg stretched out and only pull the left leg up. I sling my arms over my flexed left knee and lay my head down on top of them, hoping the spinning will stop quickly.

As I sit there, I can't help but think about how close I came to losing the one thing in this world that really means anything. I think about how it felt in Cold Oak and a cold shudder washes over me. But this time, this time it's different. Sam's gonna make it. I almost lost him, but he's gonna make it.

I'm suddenly too exhausted to hold it all back any longer and the tears that begin silently soon become heaving sobs. They're sobs of joy...sobs of exhaustion...sobs of thanks...and sobs of relief. But, mostly, they're sobs borne of the unending devotion of brothers.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *


	12. Play With Fire

**Disclaimer:** In a perfect world, they'd be mine. But, alas, I've yet to find that perfect world so I must content myself with playing in the sandbox created by Eric Kripke.

**A/N: **This chapter is a bit Dean-centric (I didn't forget all you Dean girls out there!). Guess I couldn't resist exploring what might happen if Dean reached his physical and emotional limits but still kept pushing himself. But don't fear, Sammy will be returning to our story after this chapter.

Also, there's a reference to an 1883 eruption at Krakatoa, a volcanic island in the Sunda Straight near Indonesia. For those of you not familiar, this eruption was one of the most violent volcanic events in modern times. It's said the island exploded with a force 13,000 times more powerful than the atomic bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima during WWII and generated the loudest sound ever reported, having been heard as far away as Perth, Australia - nearly 2,000 miles away. Needless to say, that's a pret-ty big boom.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 12: Play With Fire**

I knew Sam was getting better. He'd all but told me so when he squeezed my hand. But I'm still so overwhelmed to have heard the doctor confirm it, actually say it out loud that Sam would live, that I quietly allow myself to be herded out into the hallway by the young X-ray technicians.

The low rumble and high-pitched whine return as the portable X-ray machine is pushed into Sam's room just seconds later. The glass door and privacy curtain are both slid shut and I'm left alone in the hallway with my thoughts.

I guess it's the combination of my ankle throbbing like a mother and the swirling thoughts and emotions but I feel a little lightheaded. I push my back against the wall and slowly slide down until I'm seated on the floor. I'm so dizzy that I try drawing my knees up so that I can rest my head down on them.

My right ankle is so swollen and tight that I can't get it to bend to the correct angle and I'm forced to leave that leg stretched out and only pull the left leg up. I sling my arms over my flexed left knee and lay my head down on top of them, hoping the spinning will stop quickly.

As I sit there, I can't help but think about how close I came to losing the one thing in this world that really means anything. I think about how it felt in Cold Oak and a cold shudder washes over me. But this time, this time it's different. Sam's gonna make it. I almost lost him, but he's gonna make it.

I'm suddenly too exhausted to hold it all back any longer and the tears that begin silently soon become heaving sobs. They're sobs of joy...sobs of exhaustion...sobs of thanks...and sobs of relief. But, mostly, they're sobs borne of the unending devotion of brothers.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"You say the last name is Winchester?"

"Yes. That's what it was the last two times you asked and it _still_ is. It's Winchester...Sam Winchester."

The receptionist's glare is evidence enough that the irritated sarcasm that has leeched into my voice hasn't gone unnoticed. That's the third time I've had to tell her the name, for God's sake. You'd think she'd be able to retain it for more than ten seconds at a time.

"I'm sorry, sir. But I'm not finding a Winchester on our patient roster."

"Well, then, look again because I called here earlier and got confirmation that Sam and Dean Winchester were here."

"Are you certain it was _this _hospital, sir?"

Ok, now that's the final straw. I may be a lot of things, but I'm certainly _not _senile. We've been at this whole, stupid thing for damn near ten minutes, now, and I've gotten absolutely nowhere. All I want to do is get to the boys, as much for me as for them, but this brainless twit can't seem to find her ass with both hands. Although I was raised that you should never strike a lady, this idiot is pushin' me _real_ close to disobeyin' my Momma's teachin', God rest her soul.

"Yes, it was _this_ hospital! Do they _train_ you to be this stupid, or does it just come nat'ral?!"

"Sir, you don't need to yell at me, I'm doing the best I can. I don't want to have to have Security..."

"No! Please don't. Look, I'm sorry. Ok? I just _have_ to get to those boys. I practically raised 'em and now they say Sam's not gonna make it. I _have _to be there. _Please_, can you look again?"

The receptionist looks me directly in the eye, obviously sizing up my sincerity and intentions, before replacing the phone receiver back on its base. I sigh in relief as the woman turns back to her computer and slides the keyboard tray out from under the desk.

_Ok, Singer, now's not the time to start acting like John. You could have very easily screwed any chance you had of gettin' to those boys. Just calm down and get a handle on yourself. You won't do Dean any good if you get your ass booted outta here._

"I'm still not finding a Sam Winchester on the current ER patient roster...but let me try something else. Ok, here we go. It looks like there _was_ a Samuel Winchester on the roster..."

"Was?"

My heart thuds hard in my chest and my stomach does crazy flip-flops. _I can't be too late...I just can't. How can I be there for them all these years and then not be there when they need me the most? _

"Yes. It looks like his name was removed from the list about a half hour ago..."

I find it odd that the clackity-clack of the receptionist's computer keys suddenly seems to be keeping time with the anxious knocking of my knees.

"...That's weird. I'm not sure why his name would have been removed since I can't find a discharge time listed...and, no...no I'm not seeing that he's been admitted, either. Sir, I'm going to buzz you in and have you check with the charge nurse. Just come in through those double doors and follow the signs."

It seems to take an eternity before the automatic locks on the ER doors click loose and they begin to swing. They're just barely open wide enough for my body before I shove on through in a rush. Pulling up short, I quickly scan for the signs that are to point my way to the nurse's desk and the one person that will, hopefully, straighten this mess out.

They're probably posted in plain sight but I still haven't located the signs when a dark blob, slumped against the wall about half-way down the hallway, catches my eye. With the lighting and from this distance, I can't be sure who, or even _what_, the dark blob is, but, for some reason, the sight has the hair on the back of my neck standing up and I'm not sure why.

My guts churn as I give up the hunt for the nurse's station and head in the direction of the dark form. As I get closer, I recognize that the blob is Dean. He's sitting on the floor with his back slumped against the wall and his head down. My heart hammers in my chest like the piston on a freight train.

_Dean? Oh, God, please don't let me have been too late. Please don't let me have been too late._

I rush forward to close the distance between us as quickly as possible but pull up in astonished hesitation when I see the trembling shudder of Dean's body. Seconds later I hear the hitching gulps of sobs and it feels like the earth has fallen out from under my feet.

_Oh, God, he's crying. Dean's in public and he's crying openly. No! Oh, God, no! Sammy...you can't be gone. Not yet...I haven't had a chance to say my goodbyes...I wasn't here for Dean. God, no._

Approaching slowly and deliberately, I quietly call Dean's name before reaching out and placing a hand on his quivering shoulder. Even with his head down and his face obscured, I can see how pale and worn the young man looks. I can't imagine how hard it must have been for him to sit and watch his brother slip away. And it must have only been worse without having anyone here to support him.

"Dean? Dean, son, it's Bobby. I'm so sorry I wasn't here."

My heart clenches in my chest and I feel the sting of tears when Dean raises his head, his wan expression marked by dark smudges underneath unfocused, red-rimmed eyes. The pallor of his skin only accentuates the boyish look of his freckles and it strikes me that he looks so much like he did the very first time I met him, not long after he'd lost his Momma.

It was different in Cold Oak. There, Dean was grieving for Sam, sure, but he was angry. Angry at me, angry at the world, but mostly, angry at himself for not 'doing his job'. Damn that John Winchester for laying so much on his son's shoulders. It was that anger, though, that had fueled him, that had kept him going.

But this time...this time it's like the clock's been turned back some twenty-odd years. Just like back when Mary died, the boy has been through an emotional mine-field and there's nothing left. His emotions are so tapped out that even the anger isn't there this time. That scares me more than anything because the only thing that leaves is an exhausted shell of grit and adrenalin that doesn't know enough to stop running even though it's already spent everything it had to give.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I don't know why, but I just can't stop crying. Once it started, the outpouring of emotion has become an unstoppable force that refuses to be brought under control. Worse yet, the more emotion that pours from me, the more exhausted and depleted my body feels.

I hear Bobby's soft words and feel the supportive touch of his hand on my shoulder and I can barely work up the energy to raise my head. I want so much to tell him everything that's happened, that Sammy's gonna be ok, but, for the life of me, the tears won't stop and the words won't come. Just knowing Bobby is here now strips away that final reason to stay strong and in the overwhelming exhaustion, I can mutter out just one word.

"Bobby..."

Another round of uncontrollable weeping sweeps over me and I crumple against Bobby's arm. He draws me towards himself and, even though I try desperately to control it, the sobbing only intensifies when he wraps his arms around me in quiet, fatherly understanding. Not a word passes between us as I break down until I'm just too drained to continue.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I know that any words that I might say in comfort will be piteously inadequate. I fear, also, that calling attention to Dean's breakdown will do nothing more than embarrass the boy and close off the emotions he so clearly needs to release. So I do the only thing I know to do. I cradle Dean in my arms and let him do what he's been needing to do for the past twenty-three years. Not until I feel the hitching sobs fall off into an occasional whimper do I make an effort to move.

"Dean...Dean, son...let's get you off this cold, hard floor."

Dean pushes back weakly and makes an unsuccessful attempt to get up. I notice right away that he's favoring his right ankle. He hadn't had the time to tell me anything but the barest of facts in our short time on the phone and I wonder now just what he and Sam had endured on their way out of the woods.

I extend my left hand in a gesture of help and pull upward when Dean grips weakly onto it, my right hand sliding around his back to steady him when he appears to falter. Dean seems disoriented and confused, his gaze wandering aimlessly and a look of uncertainty splashed on his face.

"Dean? It's Bobby. You with me, kid?"

"S'mmy...gotta go b'ck an' stay wi' S'mmy."

If I'd missed the slurred words, I surely wasn't about to miss the subtle sway in Dean's stance nor the way he brings his hand to his forehead as though he's trying to physically clear away the cobwebs. I brace each of his upper arms with my hands and quickly look for a chair or stool or even a tabletop to sit him on, but find nothing within easy reach except three or four rolling IV stands.

"Dean? Dean, listen to me. I think you should sit back down on the floor."

"No...can't. S'mmy nee's me."

The sway is becoming more pronounced the longer I try to reason with Dean. Damned fool Winchesters. Too damned hard-headed for their own good and responsible for nearly every grey hair on my head, too, I swear. It's obvious that if I can't get Dean to _sit_ down pretty soon, he's just gonna _go _down, so I try changing tactics.

"Look, I'm just gonna down there, past that linen cart, and get that wheelchair, ok? You see it? I don't want you goin' anywhere, alright? You stay here. Got me?"

Dean shakes his head 'yes' but I really can't be sure that what I've said has really gotten through to him, or that he'd listen to me even if it did. The sudden movement tosses his equilibrium far enough off, too, that he takes a stumbled adjustment in his stance to keep him from going down.

"You stay put...and that's an order!"

I don't even make it half the distance to the wheelchair when I hear the clatter and know instinctively that it's Dean ignoring orders and trying to find his way back to Sam. I spin around to see Dean stumbling dizzily right through the tangle of IV stands, the wheeled poles skittering and bouncing crazily off the wall as he struggles to maintain his balance. I sprint towards him but he goes down hard before I could even possibly hope to get to him.

I've barely made it to his side when a crowd of scrub-clad people descends upon us. Evidently, the commotion Dean made as he crashed through the IV stands has drawn the staff's attention. A delicate brunette frowns deeply, genuine concern shadowing her features even as she begins directing the other staff.

"Somebody, grab a backboard and a collar. We're not taking any chances. And somebody notify Dr. Ku. I _knew_ this was gonna happen eventually if the stubborn fool didn't stop being so obstinate about taking care of himself."

_Well, ok then, __**you've**__ obviously met Dean Winchester. And it's obvious you've had about as much success in gettin' him to cooperate as anyone else does._

"Ok, on three we're gonna log-roll him onto the backboard. Janice, you make sure to keep his head still and maintain good traction on his C-spine until we can get that collar in place. One...two...three. Crap! Somebody hand me some gauze. He's managed to split his head open but good."

As the brunette turns to grab the offered gauze I can see a large, freely bleeding laceration over Dean's left eyebrow and raw looking scrapes to his left cheek and jaw. It's hard for me to believe, but I think he's even paler now than he was just ten minutes ago.

Someone rolls an ER stretcher up next to the crowd of people around Dean and lowers in to it's lowest position. In a well-orchestrated effort, the backboard Dean is lying on is lifted and placed onto the stretcher and then the stretcher is hurriedly pushed into a nearby room, the throng of people following closely behind. A young, blonde man, his ID badge declaring him as Dr. Kuli-something, whisks past, muttering an "I _told_ him if he continued to play with fire, he was gonna burn out" under his breath as he darts into Dean's room. As the brunette brushes quickly past, as well, I grab her arm and spin her towards me, my voice cracking with my concern.

"Is...is he gonna be ok?"

"I appreciate your concern, sir, and I thank you for trying to help him, but I really can't discuss it."

"It's just that I've never seen him like this."

"Mr. Singer? You're Mr. Singer? You're Sam and Dean's uncle? I'm Olivia. We talked on the phone."

"Yeah. I remember. I'm so sorry I couldn't get here in time. I wanted to be here with Sam...but the weather...and I had to turn back a couple times...I just wish I'd gotten here in time."

"Gotten here in time?" Olivia gives me a quizzical look and then inhales sharply. "Oh! Oh my gosh, no, Mr. Singer. You thought...and then with Dean...oh, gosh, no. Mr. Singer, Sam's doing much better."

I want desperately to believe what I think it is that Olivia is saying but am almost too afraid. She said that Sam's doing better. But what if that's only temporary? What if he takes a sudden turn for the worst and we still lose him? And, if he's not...if he hasn't...then why isn't he on the ER roster?

"I...I don't understand. Dean said he wasn't expected to make it and then they said out front that Sam's not on the ER roster. And when I come back here, Dean's in the hallway, sobbing. I've never seen him break down like that..._ever._"

"Sam's been a 'hold' in the ER since he arrived. His name was removed fromt he ER roster when we confirmed his bed in the ICU about a half hour ago. We've been waiting for the room to be readied for him. I'll bet the admissions nurse hasn't put the new room number in the system yet. Mr. Singer, I can assure you Sam's has made a miraculous turn around."

As I open my mouth to ask the pretty, young nurse just what she means by that, a chorus of raised voices pours from the room the team had rushed Dean into. Amongst the din is Dean's slurred voice and the crescendoing sounds of a scuffle.

"Please, Mr. Winchester! You've got to lie still!"

"Ge'roff me! G'a fin' S'mmy!"

"Dean! Dean, Sam is fine! Now lie back and let us take care of you or _this_ time I'll order for them to use four-point restraints!"

"No! Lemme go! Sam! S'mmy!"

"Sonofabitch! He's pulled his IV out and he's gotten the C-collar off!"

"Alright, he's not giving me much choice! Four-point him...but watch that right ankle! God only knows how much more damage he's done in there and we don't want to add to it! And get two milligrams of Ativan drawn up and ready to go! If he fights us too much, we'll just administer it right through his clothing!"

Olivia grabs me by the upper arm and pushes me towards Dean's room. "Come on, I think that's our cue. I'm hoping Dean will listen to reason if it comes from his uncle."

The room is a hectic, roiling mass of people, discarded wrappers, packages and articles of Dean's clothing. Even as weak and confused as I'd seen him in the hallway, Dean's giving the team a run for their money, arms flailing, body bucking and thrashing against the many arms attempting to hold him down.

"S'mmy! Sammy! No!"

Members of the staff have Dean's arms pinned to the backboard that his thrashing has nearly wriggled himself off of while two others are working feverishly to secure the padded restraints around his wrists. An orderly that's hovering in the background draws his hand away from his mouth and I can see the split lip that Dean had managed to bestow upon him.

I push my way into Dean's line of sight and cup his face in both hands. I had hoped to see a measure of recognition but his eyes seem glassy, unfocused and wild with deperation.

"Dean! Dean it's Bobby! You settle down right now and let them do what needs to be done or I'll let 'em tie you down and sedate you!"

"No! G'a fin' Sammy! Nee's me! If I'm no' there he'll go 'way! S'mmy don' leave! Don' go 'way! Lemme go! Sammy!"

"Dean Andrew Winchester! You stop fighting and start cooperating! They're trying to help you!"

"SAM! SAMMY!"

"Dean, I _don't_ want to have to sedate you!"

Dean thrashes violently at the doctor's comment and his right arm slips from the grasp of the team, almost striking one of the nurses as he struggles to completely break free of the hands that restrain him. Hoping to use the shoulder dislocation Dean suffered five months ago to my advantage, I grab his right arm and bring it down over the edge of the bed and push back slightly. I feel a twinge of guilt when a grimace flashes across the boy's face and a cry of pain escapes his lips, but I don't have time to dwell on it. If Dean's not going to cooperate with treatment, then I'm gonna have to see to it that he does...even if it means letting them sedate him.

"Do it!"

A bewildered nurse quickly ties a tourniquet around Dean's upper right arm, swabs off a large, bulging vein and slips an IV catheter into it. The tubing is secured to the IV catheter and the whole thing is then taped securely to Dean's arm. A syringe of medication is injected into the IV tubing and I continue holding tightly onto the arm to prevent him from dislodging yet another IV.

"No! Why'd you do tha'? I g'a be wi' S'mmy!"

A pang of guilt goes through me at Dean's words and I try my best to reassure him even as I continue to restrain his arm. "Dean...Dean, son, it's ok. Sammy's ok. He's getting better. We need to look after you, too. Just calm down. Take it easy. Sammy's gonna be ok."

It feels as though a dagger is jabbed right through my heart when the struggling and defiant Dean is suddenly replaced with the tearful one I'd seen in the hallway. Seeing Dean like this is probably the hardest thing I've ever done.

"No. Not ok. S'mmy nee's me. Can't go 'way. How cou' you let them do tha' to me? Don' let S'mmy lee me."

"It's ok, Dean. Everything's gonna be ok. I'm here and I'm gonna make it ok. When has ol' Bobby ever let you down, eh? Sammy's gonna be ok. He's not going away. You get some rest, alright?"

Dean's eyelids droop shut and a heavy sigh heaves from his chest as the drug begins to take effect. The resistance I'd felt in his right arm has lessened dramatically and I place it on the bed next to him, my hand still wrapped tightly in his to let him know I'm still there for him.

"Alright, now who the _hell_ is gonna explain to me what's going on around here and why I just had to take down my own nephew?!"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**Sam's bedside, ICU **

**One and a half hours later**

"Sometimes, Sam, I really don't know what to do with that brother of yours. Excellent hunter, one of the best, actually. And smart as a whip...when he wants to be. But damn it all to hell, there are times that boy don't use his head for nothin' but a hat rack. Wearin' himself down until he collapses. Don't worry, though. Dr. Ku checked him all out and said he was actin' so strange and fightin' us so much 'cause he was stressed out and really dehydrated. They're treatin' that with IV's and they've already stitched up the laceration he got on that hard head o' his when he went down."

I've been at his bedside all this time and I still have a hard time looking at Sam; that tube sticking out of his throat like that. Sure, I've seen him intubated and on a vent before. Not that I'm happy to say it, but I have. But that was different. Then, the tube was in his mouth. This time it's actually sticking out of his neck, like out through his windpipe, the skin, everything.

"They told me Dean had been there when they'd needed to put that tube in for you, Sammy. Said he hasn't left your side this whole time, neither. I can imagine Dean was beside himself. Still, it didn't give him any right to do what he did."

"And it didn't give _you_ any right to do what you did either, old man!"

The sudden explosion of sound in the room makes me jump but I immediately recognize the voice. I knew this confrontation would be coming, I just didn't think it would be quite this soon. Dean's in the doorway to the room, the IV still running into his right arm, shoving furiously at the wheelchair's wheels until he angrily careens over the door's frame. Olivia trails behind him with an apologetic look on her face.

"I'm sorry Mr. Singer. He threatened to pull the IV and sign out AMA. Dr. Ku wants him to have another liter or two of fluid so I bargained with him that I'd bring him over to see Sam if he'd agree to leave it in."

"It's ok, Olivia. I'll keep an eye on 'im."

I move to stand beside Dean who's wheeled himself to his brother's side. Dean's focus is obviously on his brother, but under the cool exterior that's gripping his younger brother's hand and speaking gently to him, is a Winchester that's seething. I know it's not so much _if_ the volcano is gonna blow as much as it is _when_ and how high. Olivia's barely out of the room before the 1883 volcanic eruption at Krakatoa is easily eclipsed by the Winchester eruption of 2007.

"I don't need you keepin' an eye on me! How could you _do_ that?! You didn't have any right to hold me down and let them drug me!"

"And you didn't have any right to ignore your own health to the point of collapse, either!"

"I had everything under control until you stepped in!"

"Oh, yeah, you had everything under control, alright! That's why you thought refusing food, water, and treatment for nearly four days was smart, right?!"

"Sammy was dying! What was I supposed to do?!"

"You were supposed to take care of yourself, too!"

"He's my brother! _He's_ what I care about. I don't care about me!"

"But _I _do!" A lump of emotion forms in my throat and the thoughts are so horrible that any restraint I'd used in the tone and volume of my voice is gone . "And what if I'd gotten here to find that I'd lost _both_ of you?!"

"Bobby..."

"No, Dean! Tell me!"

"Bobby, please."

"Tell me, Dean! How was I supposed to deal with it if I lost you, too?!"

"Bobby, stop it! Sammy's awake."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

I've missed the comforting warmth and familiar feel of Dean's hand. I can tell there's a warm hand in mine, but it's not Dean's and that scares me. Dean promised he'd be here. Why isn't he here? What's happened to him? The frightening thoughts propel me towards wakefulness and the pain that grows from throughout my whole body. My left calf throbs with a deep-seated ache that's topped only by the fiery burning that spans both legs from my toes to just above my knees.

My throat really hurts, too. It's raw and scratchy, but it feels like there's a huge lump there, too. I try to swallow the lump away, but it won't go. It's like I've got something stuck there.

Everything seems so heavy. Why can't I move? Why does everything hurt so damned much? My right arm feels as though it's been ripped to shreds, spasms of pain jolting mercilessly from the forearm to the shoulder, occasional flashes of agony brimming up my neck or down my side. I can't seem to do anything to relieve it and attempting to move it only intensifies the sparks of pain.

Curiously, the one place I _don't_ feel pain is in my right hand. In fact, I can't feel my right hand at all. Why can't I feel it? Why can't I even wiggle the fingers? Oh, God, please tell me it's still there! Please tell me they didn't take it!

It's all just so confusing and the sense of panic that washes over me pushes me towards the buzzing murmurs I'd been hearing for some time now. Slowly, the indistinct fizzles of sound clear until I can hear raised voices. _Dean? Bobby?_

"Oh, yeah, you had everything under control, alright! That's why you thought refusing food, water, and treatment for nearly four days was smart, right?!"

"Sammy was dying! What was I supposed to do?!"

"You were supposed to take care of yourself, too!"

_Dean? What's wrong? Why are you and Bobby yelling? And what does he mean you were supposed to take care of yourself? Are you ok?_

"He's my brother! _He's_ what I care about. I don't care about me!"

"But _I _do! And what if I'd gotten here to find that I'd lost _both_ of you?!"

_What's he mean if he lost us __**both**__? Dean? Dean, you ok? _It takes a few tries, but I push my eyes open to a world that's both so bright and so blurry at the same time. I can still feel the darkness calling to me, but I'm determined not to go back any longer. Something's wrong. Why would Dean and Bobby be yelling, otherwise? It feels like an eternity that I've been away and I need to find Dean, need to make sure everything's ok.

"Bobby..."

I want to call Dean's name and I'm pretty sure my lips are moving, but I can't get anything past the huge, uncomfortable lump in my throat. I blink several times and try to bring my surroundings into focus but, just as my vision begins to clear, it all becomes too much. The pain, the confusion, the uncertainty if Dean's really ok; it overwhelms me and I can feel tears starting to slip down my cheeks.

"No, Dean! Tell me!"

"Bobby, please."

"Tell me, Dean! How was I supposed to deal with it if I lost you, too?!"

"Bobby, stop it! Sammy's awake."

I can't seem to get any part of my body to cooperate anymore and an ever rising sense of panic flushes me at hearing their words. The deeper its roots grow, the more the tears flow and my breath catches in my chest until I feel as though I'm choking.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

Wheelchair and IV be damned. My brother's panicking and I'm not about to let anyone or anything keep me from my duties as big brother again. I push up onto my left foot and gingerly place some weight on my newly splinted right ankle in order to get closer to Sam so that he can see me.

"Sam. Sam, look at me. Come on, dude, you've got to relax. You've been a vent before. You can do this. You're ok."

I'm trying to reassure Sam with my words, but I can tell by the way he's looking at me, the way his eyes are wordlessly pleading, that it's not working. There's something I'm missing. Maybe it's something he wants to hear, _needs_ to hear, but I don't know what it is so I just keep grasping at straws.

"Sam. It's ok. Bobby's here, too."

Sam still can't seem to get a handle on his breathing and I'm beginning to worry that maybe he's developed another of those blood clots in his lungs. The longer things have gone, the more upset he's getting and the worse his color is getting.

"Bobby, see if you can get Sam's nurse in here. Something's not right. Charlene...her name's Charlene."

"Come on, Sam. Slow your breathing down. Everything will be ok if you just let the vent work with you. If you relax your breathing, the vent will help you when you take a breath."

Sam's eyes still seem so anxious and it dawns on me that maybe he doesn't remember what happened. Before I can remind him, Bobby returns to the room slightly breathless.

"She'll be right in. Said the doctor ordered some medicine in case this happened but she needs to draw it up first. He doin' any better?"

"No. Sammy? Sammy do you know where you are?"

Sam shakes his head 'yes', his eyes squinting in discomfort as the trach moves slightly in his throat.

"We were in the woods and you were bitten by a snake. It took us a while to hike out and they had to put the tube in because you couldn't breathe. Remember?"

This time, Sam nods his head just enough for me to see and a fresh wave of tears washes down his cheeks. I thought my line of questioning would make him feel better but, if anything, he seems even more agitated. His eyes are thrown open wildly as they dart anxiously around Bobby and I.

"You're ok, Sam. You are. I'm not lying to you. You're ok."

Sam's eyes are still pleading when he suddenly squeezes my hand in a death grip. I haven't felt that kind of strength in him since before this whole mess started and it sends spikes of joy and fear through me. Joy that Sam's strength and health are returning and fear that something is so very wrong that Sam is _that_ frightened.

"Dean, I think he heard us. I think that's what's got him upset. He heard us yellin'."

"It was just a little disagreement we had, Sammy, but it's over, ok? It's over. Everything's cool."

More tears brim at Sam's eyes and he shakes his head 'no'. His breathing hitches against the vent even more and he crushes my hand in his even harder as his face reddens in a fit of gagging.

"Dean, it's not just that we were yellin'. It's what we were yellin' _about._"

"Is that it? Is that what has you so upset?"

Another squeeze of my hand confirms Bobby's suspicions and I finally know what I need to say.

"Sam, I'm fine. Really. I got a little dehydrated and the ankle's in need of some R&R, but I'm ok. The IV's just to recharge the batteries and the wheelchair's so I can give the ankle a little rest."

Sam's eyes flare open even wider and I suddenly remember the large, sutured cut over my eye and the scrapes on my cheek and jaw. I raise my hand and gently touch at them.

"What? These?"

Another over exuberant nodding of Sam's head results in a forceful coughing fit that descends into a frightening gasping and choking episode that turns Sam's color from red to purple before finally quieting.

"It's nothing, really. Ankle's not too sturdy right now and I introduced my face to the floor. Dr. Ku patched me all up, gave me my lollipop and stickers and says I'll be fine. That's all. Honest."

Sam's eyes immediately flick to Bobby and when he gives Sam a confirming nod I can visibly see his body relax. By the time Charlene arrives with the medicine, Sam's already got his breathing controlled to a pace that's nicely synchronized with the settings of the ventilator and she agrees to hold off on sedating him unless Sam shows signs of panicking again.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

After a brief assessment by the ICU nurse, the three of us were left to ourselves, Charlene assuring us that Sam's admitting doctor would soon be making rounds. She also said that, if Sam continues to trigger the vent as well as he did during her exam, she thinks the doctor will probably look at getting him off of it.

Olivia came back over to the ICU a short time ago and removed my IV. She made a point of going through my discharge instructions with Bobby, stressing that I was to get plenty to eat and drink and even more plentiful rest. She even went so far as leaving my antibiotics with him so that he could assure that I took them as presecribed. Before she returned to the ER she even took some time to tell Sam how good it was to see him doing so well and assured him that she'd check in on him again in the next day or so.

It's been nearly an hour since she left and Sam's been listening to the small talk and friendly jabs that Bobby and I have been throwing at each other. More and more, I've seen him struggling to stay awake, his eyelids drooping and Sam forcing them back open, only to have them falling shut again a few minutes later.

Charlene came in about ten minutes ago and gave Sam some pain medicine through his IV. He kept denying he needed it, but when I saw the beads of sweat popping out on his forehead and the lines creasing the corners of his eyes, I knew the kid was in pain. I had no more than talked Sam into accepting some sort of pain medicine when Charlene walked in. Seems Olivia tipped her off that, as Charlene put it, "you Winchester boys have a real problem with asking for help".

Finally, the pull of the medicine is just too inviting for Sam's tired body to ignore and his eyelids flutter closed in sleep. This time, seeing Sam's eyes slip closed doesn't fill me with the fear and loneliness that it had. This time, I know that Sam isn't leaving me.

Bobby stretches in his chair, a small groan escaping as knotted muscles unfurl from their cramped positions. "Well, boy, I'd best be findin' this old man a motel to bed down in. I ain't as young as I look."

"Thanks, Bobby...for everything. And what I said earlier..."

"Don't worry about it, Dean. I learned long ago that anybody that's gonna try to keep you from your brother better be wearin' asbestos underwear. Ain't the first time I tangled with you, boy...and knowin' the two o' you, it ain't gonna be the last."

I can't help but laugh lightly. What I'd just said, it didn't even come close to saying what I _really_ felt; how much it meant to have Bobby here, how much it meant to have him do something as simple as just holding me when I could do nothing else but cry, and how badly I felt for being angry at him and yelling at him when he was only doing what was best for me. But I've never had to resort to the dreaded chick-flick moments with Bobby and still he always seems to get it. That's something I'll always be grateful for but wonder, now, if I've been wrong about all this time.

"Hey, Bobby..."

"Yeah, Dean?"

"It's just that...well, I just wanted to..."

The look of uneasy concern that sprinkles its way across Bobby's face draws me up short like a slap to the face. I was gonna tell him everything; tell him everything I was feeling, but I can't do it. I can't let the walls crash down again. I don't ever want to see anyone look at me again like Bobby's looking at me now; like I'm fragile, like they're frightened I might crack again. Suddenly, I feel weak and ashamed for falling apart and I'm determined it won't happen again.

"...um, I just wanted to ask if you'd bring a coffee with you in the morning. I think I'm going into withdrawl it's been so long since I had one."

A questioning look passes over Bobby as though he expected me to say something different. Thankfully, though, he doesn't pursue it, but only gives my shoulder a firm squeeze.

"You bet, sport. You get some rest." When he gets to the doorframe, Bobby turns and gives me a conspiratorial wink. "Don't make me sic the nurses on you."

"I won't, Bobby. I'm gonna sit with him a little longer, but I'll get some sleep. Promise."

I spend a half hour just watching Sam sleep, listening to the soft cycling of the ventilator and watching as Sam's chest begins to rise with a breath before the demand mode kicks in. Yeah, Sammy's still on the vent and he still has that horrible tube sticking out of his neck, but he's breathing, he's actually triggering each cycle of the vent. In the morning, the damned machine will be gone.

For the first time in days, I feel as though I can breathe, too. The quiet peacefulness of Sam's room wraps itself around me like a blanket and I feel my body relaxing as I lay my head down on the bed next to my brother's arm. In a few hours, we'll see the dawning of a brand new day..._both _of us...me and the baby brother I almost lost to the darkness.

"Sweet dreams, Sammy. Sweet dreams."

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: "Play With Fire" is a Rolling Stones track from their 1965 album, "Out of Our Heads".

And don't you feel bad for Dean? Just when he's starting to embrace his chick-flick side and wants to open up, he misinterprets Bobby's look of concern for his well-being as a condemnation that Bobby now sees him as being weak and a disappointment.


	13. Kissin' Dynamite

**Disclaimer: **The characters you recognize belong to Eric Kripke. The ones you don't and any WTF's belong solely to me.

**A/N: **I made a switch in 'person' (_again_) in this chapter - back to "traditional" third person story telling. I apologize for the "ping-ponging" I've done in that respect. I know it's a literary no-no and I'm sorry if it diminishes the quality of the story for those of you that have so faithfully been reading and reviewing. But I had barely gotten this chapter started when my appendix decided it no longer appreciated the nice, warm accommodations I'd so kindly supplied it for all of these years, rupturing and spewing all kinds of nasty into my abdomen. After several days in the hospital, I'm home now, recovering here in bed, high on Percocet, and it just took _way_ too much thought for my drug-addled brain to continue trying to make sense in the first person. At this point, I'm not even certain I've made sense in _any_ person. But...right hand up to God, I promise this will be my _last_ format change.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 13: Kissin' Dynamite**

"Ok, Sam," Dr. Shipley said, his upper body inclined slightly over the edge of Sam's bed so that the young hunter could see him. Sam had quickly become the hospital's unofficial 'miracle patient' and as such, had garnered nothing less than the head of the Pulmonary Department to manage the efforts to wean him from the ventilator. "We're just about ready to do this. Are you sure you don't want a mild sedative or some pain medicine beforehand?"

Sam stared up into the doctor's face, eyes wide and glistening brightly with anxious anticipation. His stomach quivered slightly at the prospect of having the trach tube removed. It wasn't that he was afraid of the discomfort he might feel. Heck, he'd been dealing with some pretty wicked pain ever since the snakebite that had started this whole fiasco in the first place. So what was a little more pain, right?

That really wasn't all that much of an issue. In fact, Sam actually welcomed the pain if it meant that removing the tube would allow him to finally be able to communicate with those around him, especially with Dean and Bobby. Sam was _this _close to being able to make certain that Dean was ok; to question Dean, question Dean's doctors, ask about Dean's health, ask about the injuries his older brother sustained in the woods, and more importantly, the ones that had turned up _after_ being in the woods. Not that he didn't trust Dean or, for that matter, believe Bobby's reassurances that he was keeping a good eye on the older boy. It was just that both men had a history of, not outright lying to Sam, but sugar-coating things if they thought he was too ill or injured to handle the truth. So, no, he wasn't about to let someone sedate him even the tiniest bit until he knew every single, microscopic, trivial little detail of what had happened to Dean after the darkness had overtaken him.

For all of those reasons, Sam was eager to see the trach tube gone. But at the same time, it was the memories of desperately gulping for breaths and the horrifying feeling of suffocating as they pulled up to the hospital that made the thought of _not _having the tube so terrifying. What happened if something went wrong and he couldn't breathe again? Would they be able to get the tube inserted again or would he slowly choke to death? Judging by the way Dean nervously jittered about at his bedside, Sam was pretty certain similar thoughts were bouncing around in Dean's head, too.

Despite his anxiety, Sam silently mouthed the words "no medicine", hoping to leave no doubt that he was refusing the doctor's offers to be medicated before removing the tube. He wanted to make certain he was understood, though, so Sam raised his left hand towards his throat, his fingers pinched together as though he was grasping an imaginary object, and made a pulling motion to indicate he just wanted the tube out.

"Alright, Sam, we'll do it your way...no meds. You're probably going to feel the need to cough and the first few minutes your breathing may feel a little 'off'. Just try to relax into it as much as you can. I wouldn't be doing this if I didn't think you were ready."

Despite the physician's encouraging words, Sam noted that another, slightly narrower, trach tube lay nearby and the ventilator, although pushed into the corner, had not been removed from the room. Even though the doctor sounded so confident, it was obvious to Sam that precautions were still being taken in case this whole thing went horribly wrong. Just the thought of it, the thought of gasping for air that wouldn't come, sent a shiver through Sam and he found his left hand groping blindly along the bed until he felt Dean intertwine his calloused fingers in his and give a firm squeeze.

"I'm here, bro. You'll do just fine."

Dr. Shipley gave Sam an encouraging wink before he picked up a syringe from a nearby tray and screwed the tip of it onto the small plastic tube that dangled from the trach. Noting the bright red cap that plugged the end of the trach tube, he pulled back on the plunger of the syringe, but was unable to remove any additional air from the trach cuff.

"Ok, good," he asserted. "We capped the trach and deflated the cuff last night so you could start breathing on your own through your upper airway, like nature intended. I was just double-checking to make certain it was completely deflated. Next, you'll feel me snipping and pulling out the stitches that helped to hold the tube in place."

Sam felt several quick tugs on his neck as the sutures slipped quickly and easily from the skin over his throat. The day-shift nurse leaned in slightly, dabbing at the blood that oozed from the tiny holes left behind. Although Sam still bled more than he usually did, Dean was glad to see that the bleeding was no longer so uncontrollable.

"Here we go," Dr. Shipley warned as he grasped the end of the trach tube in his fingers. Dean's fingers unconsciously tightened around Sam's as the physician quickly dislodged the plastic tube from Sam's throat by pulling outward and down towards Sam's chest in a curving motion.

As the tube cleared from Sam's throat he coughed violently, his face reddening and tears of exertion slipping from the corners of his eyes. Tense moments passed as Sam seemed unable to tame the irritation in his throat and the coughing fit continued. The crimson shade of his face deepened, the veins along his temples standing out in protest of the violent coughing spasms, and his fingers grappled even more tightly around Dean's.

The head of Sam's bed was raised, his bloated right arm carefully cradled at his side on a pillow. One large gasping breath was soon followed by more until the coughing gradually subsided and Sam's breathing settled into a steady rhythm. Working quickly, Dr. Shipley dabbed a few smears of skin adhesive around the trach incision, paused briefly and then applied butterfly tapes over the wound, pulling the raw skin edges snugly together.

"All done, Sam," the doctor cheerily announced. "You did really well. With the bloodthinner you're on, you're probably going to have a bit of bleeding yet, so Denise is going to put a square or two of gauze over those tapes. In a day or two, that'll be completely healed."

The older man glanced up at the monitor, a slight nod of his head confirming that he liked what he saw. "Your O2 levels look good. We'll keep you on some oxygen through the nasal cannula and have Respiratory Therapy give you some inhalers for a few days yet. That should help to ease your breathing. But, if you start feeling short of breath you need to let someone know right away."

"Don't worry, Doc," Dean quickly assured. "I'll be keeping a close eye on him."

"And _I'll_ be keepin' an even closer eye on _both_ of you." Bobby stood in the doorway, arms crossed seriously in front of him and a stern look plastered on his face. Uncrossing his arms, he gently tapped at the face of his watch. "Deal's a deal, kid. You agreed to get a decent meal and a few hours sleep in a _real_ bed if you could be here to see that Sam's tube came out ok. You've got fifteen minutes and then I expect your bony ass to be in that Impala, suckin' down coffee and McDonald's take-out on your way back to the motel."

Dean opened his mouth to speak but Bobby flicked a small card from a flat position to an upright one by rolling it between two fingers and then holding it at Dean's eye level. "Read it and weep, boy. I fig'red you'd try an 'our motel's too far away' ploy, so I took the liberty of checking you out of that flea-bag flophouse you were in and booked a room for you at the motel I'm at. In fact, knowing how trouble seems to follow you boys like a bad smell, I booked you into the room right next to mine."

Over the years, it had become increasingly difficult for Dean to strategize around the older hunter. Apparently, Bobby had learned a thing or two about the way Dean's thought process worked and it irritated him. Predictability wasn't exactly manly. In Dean's mind, predictability was something better relegated to kindly, old grandmas whose lives were stuck in the tedious rut of baking cookies for the grandkiddies, knitting sweaters, going to Tuesday night Bingo and adopting too many stray cats.

A look of indignation flashed across Dean's face when Bobby crossed the room to Sam's bedside, shoving the card into Dean's chest with an extra consolatory pat as he brushed on by. "Two Queens. Magic fingers. Ten bucks in quarters on the night stand."

_Magic fingers? Ok, so maybe predictability isn't necessarily all that bad,_ Dean thought with a shrug before he turned back to his brother. Sam tried to suppress the dimpled grin that threatened to spread over his face at Bobby's one-upmanship of his older brother and a series of strangled chuckles reduced him to another short round of muffled coughs.

"Good to see you sittin' up, Sam," Bobby said sincerely, the memories of Sam's so recent brush with death coloring his voice with added emotion.

Although it had been days since Sam's vocal cords had spasmed closed and cut off his airway, the tissues of his throat remained sore and the removal of the trach tube had only added a scratchy sensation. It had taken several tries before Sam was finally able to force out a few, hoarsely whispered words. "Dean ok?"

"You know, I could set my watch by you Winchester boys," Bobby laughed out heartily. "You're like two old women, you're so set in your ways."

"Not...old," Sam pushed out, wincing badly as the muscles in his neck protested their return to work.

"Yeah, but you are a woman, aren't you, Samantha?," Dean quipped.

Despite the banter, Bobby could see the concern drawing across Sam's face and the tension in the boy's body increase when his question wasn't immediately answered. Knowing a full-blown panic attack was looming on the horizon, Bobby quickly stepped in.

"Ok, ok. Let's play nice, boys. And I want you to relax and concentrate on recovering, Sam. Dean's fine and Dr. Singer, here, is more than willing to ride his ass to see that he stays that way."

The tension drained from Sam's shoulders and he leaned his head back tiredly into the pillow and closed his eyes in relief. That's not to say that he wouldn't be watching Dean like a hawk, himself, but it went a long way in putting his mind at ease to hear Bobby's assurances once again. Sam's eyes opened lazily when Bobby spoke again.

"Speaking of which," Bobby chided, "your fifteen minutes ended ten minutes ago, young man." The older hunter spun Dean around by the shoulders and gave him a gentle nudge towards the door. "Door's that way. I don't want to see you back here for at _least_ four hours...and don't think I won't know it if you try skippin' out on your nap time, Junior. It's amazing what desk clerks and housekeeping staff at the seedier motels will do for you when you wave a few twenties under their noses."

"Come on, Bobby," Dean whined in protest. "I'm fine. I slept some last night, right here in the chair. Sam and I are finally able to talk and you're shoving me out the door."

"Yeah, well, Sam's throat isn't up to a gab-fest and you're both worn out. He needs the rest and he won't sleep if you're here and neither will you. Now, git!"

As much as he wanted to stay at Sam's side, a warm meal, a hot shower and a soft bed certainly did sound inviting. Dean heaved a sigh of defeat knowing that he wasn't going to break the older man's resolve. "I'm going, I'm going...," Dean groaned before quickly adding, "...but my cell's staying on, though. And I want your word that you'll call me if Sam so much as breaks wind. Ok?"

"I give you my word that I'll call if something happens," Bobby droned out.

Dean watched as Sam's eyes blinked slowly, fatigue creeping in from the edges. "Glad to have you back, Sammy. You get some rest and I'll be back before you know it."

**Two hours later**

Bobby sat at Sam's bedside thumbing through a copy of "Guns & Ammo" that he'd picked up at the magazine stand in the hospital's lobby. He immediately flipped right past what he considered to be the 'fluff' articles, like "Putting Speedloaders to Work for You", "Elk Hunting Strategies"and "What Your Arsenal Reveals About You". Instead, he went straight for the one titled, "Samuel Colt: Fabled Firearm or Fanciful Fiction?".

The first page or so of the article dealt with the well-known 'facts' about Samuel Colt's life; his upbringing in 1800's New England, the fascination for guns that he'd acquired at a young age, his travels to Europe and his ambition to produce what, at that time, was considered an 'impossible' gun - a repeating firearm with interchangeable parts.

In other words, Bobby had mused silently, a re-hash of the story of Colt's life that made the history books, **not** necessarily the life the man had actually led. It wasn't until Bobby had gotten to the bottom righthand column of the second page that his interest was truly piqued.

"_...a Benton Scruggs, who asserts that the history books have Samuel Colt all wrong. According to this amateur history buff, the 'real' story of Samuel Colt's life was actually something that would be better found in grocery store tabloids than in highschool history books. _

_Scruggs claims to have stumbled upon a journal that once belonged to the legendary gunmaker after purchasing a small, apparently empty chest from Norman Bennett, owner of 'Second Time Around', an antique shop in Southern Wyoming. _

_Bennett relates that a group of historical preservationists found the box during renovations to a nearby frontier church. Finding nothing of value in the chest, nor any church record of its existence or significance, the historical society agreed to sell it to Bennett in exchange for cash that was used to fund further preservation projects at the church. _

_Although a small bronze plate on the strongbox is engraved with the initials 'SPC', Bennett did not consider the antique box to be particularly special. "I was all over that chest, cleaning it up and looking for clues to who made it or owned it," Bennett asserts, "and it isn't nothing but a nice example of mid-to late 1800's craftmanship. I didn't find nothing else, because there wasn't nothing else to find."_

_Scruggs claims that the book was discovered after he accidentally tripped a cleverly concealed latch that opened a false bottom in the box. "I've collected Old West artifacts all of my life and I bought the chest just because it fit nicely into my collection," Scruggs said. "It never even crossed my mind that those initials stood for Samuel Paterson Colt until I found that journal and the signature inside it."_

_In this journal, Scruggs asserts, Colt chronicled a life much, much different from the benign life of the American industrialist that history has come to know. Scruggs maintains that the journal has entries detailing such fantastic things as "demons, ghosts and other 'unnatural' beasts", as well as sketches of strange symbols and what appears to be Latin text. In addition, the tattered, leather-bound book is professed to contain intricate drawings of what Scruggs calls a 'mystical' revolver and its inner mechanisms, that was apparently crafted by Samuel Colt, himself, for an unknown recipient. _

_All attempts by this magazine and other, independent historical researchers to gain access to the alleged journal for authenticity verification have been met with unbending resistance from Scruggs. David Doolittle, an expert on historical documents at the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming in Laramie, has his doubts about Scruggs' claims._

"_There isn't a historian alive," Doolittle asserts, "that would endorse the authenticity of a document that Mr. Scruggs refuses to produce for expert review. Secondly, Samuel Colt was like the Bill Gates of his era. His name and the events of his life were well-documented and widely reported as they took place. Scruggs' assertions that Colt was some sort of mysterious Satanist or something who made 'magic' guns is ludicrous and sullies the name of an Old West legend."_

_When asked to produce the document for review by experts, Scruggs cited the relatively fragile nature of the time-worn journal and fears that information contained it in will be leaked to the public as two of his many reasons for not disclosing his whereabouts nor the location of the document, saying only that the journal is "safe under lock and key". _

_Still, Scruggs seems unconcerned by Doolittle's dismissal of his claims, even going so far as to hint at some sort of coded map or directions that supposedly reveals the location of the original die castings Colt used to produce the alleged weapon. Scruggs does admit, however, that he has yet to be successful in cracking the code, nor does the journal give any clues to the whereabouts of Colt's original gun. _

"_I don't know where the original 'mystical' gun is, but it's obvious that this isn't just __**any**__ gun," Scruggs asserts, "or Samuel Colt wouldn't have gone to such lengths to protect it; or to prevent another from being produced by just anyone, for that matter. That's ok, though, because I'm still going to prove Doolittle and all the other so-called experts wrong. I'll break that code, find those castings and build a replica with the help of Colt's journal, or I'll die trying."_

"Son of a bitch," Bobby blurted out, the magazine falling to the floor with a resounding slap, slap, slap of the fluttering pages as he stood. Pacing back and forth, his hand scrubbing nervously through his beard, Bobby's mind swirled with the implications of the article. "Damned fool idiot. You may very well die trying 'cause you have no idea what you're getting into."

Bobby was too preoccupied to notice the subtle rustling of sheets or the flutter of Sam's heavy eyelids as the young man stirred. "What's wrong, Bobby?," Sam rasped out roughly, a harsh cough grinding its way through the older man's name.

"What? Oh...uh, nothing. I, uh, I dozed off and dropped my magazine. Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

Something in Bobby's manner sent a cascade of unease down Sam's spine, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he watched the older man for any clues. Although Bobby had probably broken nearly every endurance record known to man in order to get to them and had every reason to be exhausted, Sam knew the hunter was way too seasoned and cautious to just 'doze off' and drop a magazine, no matter how tired he may be. Something _had_ to be up and whatever it was, it was big.

Sam allowed his skills as a hunter to soak in everything about his current environment in hopes of understanding what had Bobby on edge but there were no unexplainable shadows, no cold spots and no sulfur scent. Even so, _something_ was making the older man as skittish as a wild mustang. _Too bad Dean's not here, _Sam thought. _He reads Bobby's moods a lot better than I do._

Sam felt a sudden flush come over him as a burst of adrenalin rushed through his veins and a knot clenched tightly in his abdomen. _Dean! Dean's not here. Oh, Jesus, they __**were**__ lying to me. Dean's not ok and Bobby knows it. Oh, God, Dean's not ok._

"Wh-...where's Dean? That's what it is, isn't it? You lied to me, didn't you?" Sam croaked out, his voice becoming increasingly coarse and ragged with each syllable. The effort of raising his voice escalated the irritation in Sam's throat and tightened the muscles in his neck until each of Sam's breaths were marked by a light wheezing.

"What are you talking about, Sam? I didn't lie to you about anything," the older man tried to reassure, still not certain just what had set Sam off, but desperate to quell it before Sam's breathing degenerated any further.

"Dean," Sam wheezed. "You lied to me about Dean. He's not ok, is he? That's why you're so uptight."

"Sam, you know full well that I sent Dean back to the motel to sleep. How many times do I need to tell you that he's fine? He'll be back in a few hours and you know he'll freak if you get yourself so worked up that they have to put that damned tube back in."

Sam leaned back into the bed and gently rolled his shoulders as he consciously tried to slow his breathing. Bobby's demeanor still made his skin prickle with anxiety but ending up back on that ventilator was the last thing that Sam wanted, especially where it made communicating such a near impossibility.

"That's good, Sam. Here," Bobby proffered, having shaken a small blue inhaler and held it out to Sam. "Dr. Shipley said you should use a couple puffs on this if your breathing got tight."

Sam raised the plastic inhaler to his mouth and inhaled as deeply as he could while depressing the canister between the fingers of his left hand. Bobby took the dispenser from Sam and gently shook it for him again so that the motion wouldn't jar his painful right arm and then handed it back to him. Sam once again depressed the canister, a bigger breath sending the medicated mist deeper into Sam's lungs and easing his breathing.

"If Dean's good," Sam whispered, trying hard not to aggravate his raw throat again, "what's got you so bent out of shape?"

"It's just that...," Bobby stammered out. He really, **really** didn't want to tell Sam about the article he'd found because he knew Sam would neglect his health in order to chase down the clues. So Bobby was relieved when a light knock came at the door and their conversation was brought to an abrupt halt.

"Sam Winchester? I'm Dr. Hartzell. I'm your surgeon," the rather rumpled looking man explained coolly.

Sam stiffened noticeably on the bed, his eyes darting back and forth excitedly from the doctor to Bobby. For his part, the older hunter appeared just as shell-shocked and his mouth opened and closed multiple times before he finally stammered out a response.

"Surgeon? What's he need a surgeon for?"

The disheveled man had already crossed the room and was standing at Sam's bedside tugging off the bandages that encased the young man's right arm. The medic's less than gentle manner elicited more than a few hisses and moans of pain from the young hunter before finally exposing the swollen limb and then tossing the soiled dressings haphazardly onto the floor at his feet. Still ignoring Bobby's question, Dr. Hartzell proceeded to poke and prod at the discolored skin before grasping the fingers of Sam's hand and turning the blackened palm upwards.

Sam cried out from the extreme pain the movement of his right hand had produced and his arm jerked reflexively away. The sudden motion sent even more bolts of pain ripping up his arm and he arched back into the bed. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, as though doing so would also shut out the pain. A small tear traced its way slowly down his cheek as he struggled to keep his breathing controlled.

"Mr. Winchester," the doctor admonished bitterly. "If I'm to properly assess the abysmal condition of what is supposed to pass for your right arm, you can't be pulling away from me like some sissy."

"Now you just wait a damned minute," Bobby bellowed. "You have no right. I'm this boy's Uncle Bobby and..."

"I've got every right," Hartzell shot back, cutting Bobby off in mid-stream, "and, contrary to your opinion, I don't give a damn who the hell you are. Make a fist, Winchester."

Despite his sensitive nature, Sam was normally more than capable of defending himself quite well with all sorts of difficult personalities. Most of them, he had been able to bring around with his remarkable ability to charm the pants off of anyone. But the physician's peppery and irascible temperament, when coupled with his physical roughness, had combined to produce a surprise attack fierce enough to overwhelm the already stressed and injured young man into wordless compliance.

Bearing down as hard as he could, Sam could still only get meager movement from the ring and pinkie fingers of his right hand and none at all from the thumb, index and middle fingers. What he _did_ get in abundance was a searing throb that wound its way from his hand, over his shoulder and into his neck where it settled into a steady rhythm at the base of his skull.

"Come on," the surgeon lectured, tapping at Sam's fingers when they failed to curl any further. "A two year old could give me a stronger fist than that."

Each flick the surgeon gave to Sam's fingers amplified the shooting pain in his arm. Bobby could see the boy had had just about all he could take when the color drained suddenly from Sam's lips and narrow rivulets of sweat framed his pale face in dampened hanks of chestnut brown hair.

"Alright, Winchester. That's enough," the brash physician relented. "For all your grunting and groaning around like some cheap whore, you're not getting anywhere moving those fingers and your Uncle Buck's panties are already in enough of a wad, now aren't they?"

Bobby bristled at the man's insulting, disrespectful and highly unprofessional manner. He could feel himself clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides and a nearly insatiable urge to pummel the arrogant bastard washed over him. The only thing that stopped Bobby from becoming physical was, aside from the satisfaction of hitting the maggot, assaulting Hartzell probably wouldn't do anything more than get Bobby arrested. And with Dean still considered a fugitive at large, cops would be the last thing any of them would need.

A verbal assault, however, wasn't out of the question and Bobby planned on taking full advantage of his opportunity. Watching the expression on Hartzell's face when he informed the pompous son of a bitch that he was going to report his atrocious behavior to the hospital's President of Medical Affairs was going to be gratifying for Bobby. "I've got half a mind to..."

"Frankly, I'd suspected as much, so let me put this in the simplest of terms. This blackened tissue," Dr. Hartzell indicated the entirety of Sam's palm, as well as a wide streak of darkened skin that extended half the distance up the underside of his forearm. "It's necrotic. You know, _dead_," he added condescendingly when Sam stared at him blankly.

"You'll need to cut away the dead tissue then, right?," Bobby questioned carefully, not wanting to upset Sam by jumping to any drastic assumptions. "I mean, to prevent infection from setting in and to allow the arm to heal."

"Huh," the bedraggled surgeon grunted out, "you _did_ learn a little something at the University of Redneck, after all. But, yes, I won't be able to determine how healthy the underlying structures are until I clean out the dead tissue."

"And if," Sam started quietly, before swallowing thickly to prevent his voice from cracking. He blinked several times, trying to hold back an onslaught of tears, as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of the sharp-tongued physician who was scribbling furiously on papers from his chart. "What happens," Sam began again before needing to clear his throat. "What happens if you remove the dead tissue and you don't like what you find underneath?"

"Then you're going to be a shoo-in for the role of Captain Hook in the next community theater production of 'Peter Pan'."

"Dear God," Bobby gasped out breathlessly, not certain if it was the threat of amputation that struck him so hard or the cold, heartless way in which Sam had been told about it.

"Here," the surgeon commanded as he shoved a pen and one of the paper's from Sam's chart at him. "You need to sign this. I assume you _do _know how to spell your own name."

Bobby inched closer to Sam and read over the younger man's shoulder.

_ Informed Consent for Surgical Procedure._

_I, hereby give my written consent for _Dr. Eugene Hartzell _to perform the following procedure(s):_

Debridement of necrotic tissue right hand and forearm with irrigation and exploration, probable below the elbow amputation.

_The purpose, risks and expected outcomes of said procedure(s) have been explained to me and I've had the opportunity to ask..._

The older hunter had gotten only that far before Sam pushed the paper back at the sardonic physician. "I won't sign it," he pronounced quietly. "I won't let you take my arm."

"Sam," Bobby attempted to reason, "I know this is hard. But I'm certain Dr. Hartzell is going to do everything he can to save your arm." Bobby threw the surgeon an imploring look, hoping that he would do the right thing and at least give the distraught boy some assurance. When none was forthcoming, he continued on. "Sam, if you don't do this and infection sets in, the arm could become gangrenous and you'd stand to lose even more of it. Please, Sam. You have to sign it."

Sam turned glistening and hurt-filled eyes towards the man he had long considered to be his second father. "I can't, Bobby. Don't you get it? I _can't_ lose my arm."

"As much as this whole 'Little House on the Prairie' moment nauseates me," the medic interrupted in a vitriolic tone, "and as much as it pains me to say this, I have to agree that your uncle is right. If you don't pull your head out of your ass and let me take care of it, you could end up losing the whole arm. Not to mention that, if it goes septic, the infection could kill you."

"Sam, please," Bobby begged. There were few times in his life that the older hunter had felt helpless and vulnerable but this was one of them. "At least take a little time to think about it before making a decision."

"I _have_ thought about it, Bobby," Sam barked back, his eyes flashing with hostility, "and I'm not signing it."

"Well, it's your funeral, kid," Dr. Hartzell reproached as he stuffed the unsigned consent back into Sam's chart, turned on his heel and walked from the room, clearly having no problem absolving himself from any further responsibility for the obstinate young patient.

The surgeon was hardly out of the room ten seconds before a chirpy, blonde nurse named Kelli bounced into the room, her long golden curls springing animatedly around her shoulders as she walked.

"Oh, dear," she jabbered, her eyes taking in the discarded bandages that had been ground into the floor as Hartzell moved carelessly over top of them, the strained look on Bobby's face and the pale, pain-filled expression that had etched deep creases into the face of the handsome younger man. "It never fails, 'Hurricane Hartzell' certainly leaves a path of destruction wherever he blows."

Gathering a supply of bandaging materials, Kelli set about re-dressing Sam's right arm, babbling continuously to cut the obvious tension in the air. "No other doctor in this hospital could get away with what Hartzell does. He's got a rotten bedside manner and is so hateful to his patients...and he treats the nurses even worse. But, no matter what you think of him as a person, he's one of the most gifted surgeons I've ever seen."

Normally, Sam had found the nurse's over-exuberant personality to be rather engaging, maybe even somewhat comical. But, at this moment, her excessively cheerful attitude and non-stop chatter was almost too much for his frayed nerves. He rested his head back into the pillow and tried to tune her out by concentrating on the way the surges of pain coursed up his arm in time to the mechanical 'beep, beeps' of his heart monitor.

"...lucky he's your doctor. Oh, jeez, look at the time. You should have had your next dose of pain meds almost forty-five minutes ago. I'll go draw them up and be right back in with them."

"No," Sam blurted out harshly. Seeing the shocked look on the nurse's face, he took a deep breath and forced himself to sound more calm and pleasant. "I don't need them. It doesn't hurt all that much. But, thank you, Kelli."

Sam didn't think Kelli could tell he was lying, but he _knew_ Bobby could. After the punishment the tortured arm had endured under Hartzell's harsh treatment and then the jarring it took to re-bandage it, the arm was practically sizzling in agony. In an odd way, though, Sam was beginning to find the pain to be comforting. At least as long as his arm was hurting, he knew it was still there.

The blonde's face dissolved into a smitten grin at Sam's use of her name. It was obvious his charm and puppy dog eyes had already worked their magic on the young woman's sympathies. "Alright, sweetie," Kelli cooed, giving Sam's knee a gentle pat on her way towards the door. "You know that I'm just a push of your call-button away if you change your mind," she reminded before slipping out and pulling the door shut behind her.

Bobby paced back and forth, silently fuming over Sam's refusal to take care of himself. He tugged at the bill of his ragged ball cap a few times before pulling the hat from his head and slapping it irritatedly against his thigh. "Damn it, Sam. I thought you were smarter than this. How can you be so reckless with your health?"

Sam couldn't bear to look at the older man, but he could hear the reproach in Bobby's voice and it brought a fresh crop of tears brimming at the edges of his downcast eyes. "I'm sorry," Sam whispered, the disappointment he'd heard in Bobby's voice twisting his heart until he was certain it would break in two.

"Is that all you've got to say?! Huh? After those people put their lives on the line during a dangerous storm just to deliver the antivenom here for you...After everything these people did to save you...the long hours they put in...and all you've got to say is 'I'm sorry'?"

Sam drew in a shaky breath, but made no effort to defend himself against Bobby's tirade. Sam's lack of response further infuriated the older hunter and his temper got the better of him, exploding in a rush of caustic words he'd later regret.

"How you ever managed to get into Stanford, I'll never know! Because you're a brainless, ungrateful, selfish ignoramus, you know that?! You didn't see what your brother did to himself just to stay by your side when you were dying, but _I _did. You have _no_ idea what watching you kill yourself is going to do to Dean!"

The mention of his brother's name was all it took for the tears to wash down Sam's face. Couldn't Bobby understand that Dean was precisely the reason why he couldn't sign that form? If Sam lost his arm, he was out of the game. And if he couldn't hunt, how was he going to save Dean from the deal he'd made with the Crossroads Demon?

"Oh, my God," Bobby sputtered breathlessly. "That's it, isn't? You won't sign because of Dean's deal. You think that if you lose the arm, you won't be able to get Dean out of that damned deal. This whole thing, all of it, it's about Dean, isn't it?"

"What about Dean?," a familiar voice boomed from the doorway. Turning towards the sound, Sam and Bobby saw the older sibling leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, arms crossed casually in front of his chest and a smugly cherubic grin lighting his face.

* * *

**To be continued...**

* * *

A/N: I chose AC/DC's "Kissin' Dynamite" for this chapter's title because, after it looked like things were finally looking up for the boys, what with the revelations brought about by the magazine article and the possibility of Sam losing his arm, everything now seems to be blowing up in their faces. "Kissin' Dynamite" is from the 1988 album, Blow Up Your Video. 

Also, I was unable to find any sources that site a middle name or initial for Samuel Colt. Therefore, I took the liberty of substituting the name 'Paterson'...the name of the town in New Jersey that was the site of one of Colt's early manufacturing plants.

Additionally, the American Heritage Center at the University of Wyoming does exist. They have an extensive collection of Old West artifacts and documents. On the other hand, the historical expert, David Doolittle, is purely fictional.

The character of Dr. Hartzell is **_not_** patterned after the doctor's character on the TV show, "House" (I've never seen the show). It is actually based on a real surgeon I once knew. Like Hartzell, his atrocious bedside manner and physical roughness was tolerated, both by his patients and the hospital administration, only because he was a brilliant physician.


	14. Pandora's Box

**Disclaimer: **Standard disclaimers apply.

**A/N: **As you all know, I was recently in the hospital for a ruptured appendix but did my best to keep up with updating this story. That effort has been hampered by the fact that I've been in and out of the hospital in the weeks since, the last time for yet another surgery for an abscess that developed due to the rupture. My original intention for this fic was to see it through to the very end under the title of 'Crotalus'. With my recent health issues, I've made the decision to bring the story to a **temporary** close with this extra-long chapter. I need time to get my health and strength back under control before I continue this story to it's planned ending. Although, I'll be taking an extended break, I **will** be completing it. I want to extend my sincerest gratitude to all of the readers who have read this story and taken the time to send along not only notes of encouragement by ideas on where to take the story. I appreciate each and every one of you that's stuck with me and this story. I hope you'll come back for more when I continue this story with it's sequel, 'Atrox'.

* * *

**Crotalus**

**Chapter 14: Pandora's Box**

The mention of his brother's name was all it took for the tears to wash down Sam's face. Couldn't Bobby understand that Dean was precisely the reason why he couldn't sign that form? If Sam lost his arm, he was out of the game. And if he couldn't hunt, how was he going to save Dean from the deal he'd made with the Crossroads Demon?

"Oh, my God," Bobby sputtered breathlessly. "That's it, isn't? You won't sign because of Dean's deal. You think that if you lose the arm, you won't be able to get Dean out of that damned deal. This whole thing, all of it, it's about Dean, isn't it?"

"What about Dean?," a familiar voice boomed from the doorway. Turning towards the sound, Sam and Bobby saw the older sibling leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, arms crossed casually in front of his chest and a smugly cherubic grin lighting his face.

"Dean," Bobby said hesitantly, wondering just how much of the horrible things he'd said to Sam that the older boy might have heard.

Dean watched lustfully as the irritatingly jaunty Kelli flounced back into the room, her ample bosom bouncing with her motions nearly as much as her golden curls. "Sorry, I'm interrupting, guys," the nurse twittered with a schoolgirl giggle, "but it's time for Sam to get washed up and his bed linens need to be changed. You can come back in when we're done."

Bobby was actually relieved for the interruption. He really needed to talk to Dean. The article about Samuel Colt that he'd read in "Guns & Ammo" was troubling enough, but the bombshell that had been dropped regarding Sam's arm had put a twist of desperation into his mood.

The older hunter followed Dean out the door, having to give him a firm nudge to keep him moving as he looked confusedly back over his shoulder at his younger brother. Sam sat passively on the bed, his eyes averted downward as he tried to hide his attempts to swipe at the wash of tears still trickling down his cheeks. "Is Sammy ok, Bobby? He looks really pale."

Once outside the door, the eldest boy got his first good look at Bobby's face and the rather strained and severe expression it held. "Look, Bobby," Dean gushed, "before you jump all over me for being back here so so-..."

"I'm glad you're here, Dean. We've got to talk."

"You are?," Dean questioned, the astonishment clear in his voice. "I thought for sure you'd be tearing me a new one becau-..."

"We've got trouble, Dean. _Big_ trouble, and plenty of it."

"It's Sammy, isn't it?," Dean questioned anxiously as he subconsciously began to pace furiously back and forth in front of the closed door of his younger brother's room. "I _knew_ something would happen if I left."

_No, Dean, _Bobby thought ruefully, _something would have happened had you stayed. Most likely, you'd have knocked Hartzell's ass into next week and ended up in jail with Hendrickson just drooling over the prospect of getting his mitts on you. _"Dean, just calm down and listen to me. You have to promise me that you won't interrupt until I'm done."

A growing pit was carving its way into Dean's stomach at the implications behind the elder hunter's words. Bobby was serious..._deadly_ serious. "What's going on, Bobby? I could swear Sam was crying. Aren't they giving him enough pain medication?"

"While you were gone, there was a Dr. Hartzell that came in. He's a surgeon. A real arrogant S. O. B.," Bobby explained, holding up his hand to stop Dean when it looked as though he was going to butt in. "The nurses say he's the best at what he does...and it's a good thing. Because, despite all of his medical prowess, he's about as tactless as they come. He dropped a real bombshell in Sam's lap and he wasn't exactly sympathetic in his approach."

Bobby took a deep breath before forging into the most difficult part of his story. "Hartzell says that all of that black tissue on Sam's hand and arm is dead. He needs to cut away the dead tissue to prevent infection but Sam is refusing to sign the surgical consent."

"What?! He damn well better sign it or I'll _make_ him sign it," Dean blustered as he reached to push the door open, not caring that the nurse was still assisting Sam to bathe.

"Dean, wait!," Bobby blurted, stepping in front of the younger man to block him from opening the door. "It's not that simple. There's a chance cleaning out the dead tissue won't be enough. Dean, Sam won't sign the consent because the surgeon said he'd most likely have to amputate the arm."

Bobby had wanted to ease gently into the possibility of Sam losing his arm but Dean hadn't really given him any choice and his words had tumbled out much quicker and harsher than he would have preferred. Their impact was easily measured by Dean's stunned expression. He almost appeared as though Bobby had physically reached out and slapped him in the face.

Dean's eyes searched Bobby's face, hoping he had somehow misunderstood what the older man had said. But the anguished and sympathetic mien of his trusted friend was plenty of evidence that Dean had understood just perfectly. "Oh, Sammy," Dean whispered out, his facial expression twisting with the heartbreak he felt for his little brother. "But, Bobby...if he doesn't get it taken care of and infection sets in..."

"It might kill him," Bobby finished for him quietly, the sudden glistening of Dean's eyes not going unnoticed by the older man. "He's convinced himself that he can't get you outta..."

"It's the deal, isn't?" Dean didn't really need the affirmative nodding of the other hunter's head to know he was right. "He's more worried about trying to find some way to get me out of that deal than he is of taking care of himself. We don't even know if a way out even exists, Bobby. I've got to talk to him. I've got to get him to sign that consent," Dean proclaimed, a tone of desperation leeching into his voice.

"I was counting on it, Dean," Bobby assured, a strong hand gripping Dean's right shoulder and giving it a firm, encouraging squeeze. "But there's more."

"More? Jesus, Bobby, how much more can Sammy deal with right now?"

"That's precisely why we need to talk. There's potentially some big shit going down out there and if Sam finds out about it..."

"Big shit? What kind of big shit? Quit talking in riddles, Bobby, and just spit it out," Dean growled irritably. The stress of the past few days had taken its toll on Dean's nerves and the revelations about Sam's arm certainly hadn't helped. He already had a lot to deal with right now and he just didn't have the energy to try to decode Bobby's cryptic statements.

"Here," Bobby grunted as he shoved the article from the "Guns & Ammo" magazine at Dean. He pointed to the area on the second page of the expose on Samuel Colt. "Start reading here."

Dean's eyes flashed back and forth across the page as the words printed there unveiled the story. Occasionally, his lips would silently mouth the words as he read. By the time he'd read to the end, his jaw hung open in shell-shocked disbelief. "Holy shit," Dean muttered, his arm dropping limply to his side with the magazine still clutched tightly in his fingers.

"Yeah. You can say that again," Bobby acknowledged. "I had the same response."

"Do you think Colt's journal really exists or is this something this Scruggs dude is making up for a few quick bucks and some notoriety?"

"Pretty damned accurate shit if he's makin' it up. And he'll get some notoriety, alright. If he doesn't get himself locked in a rubber room first, he'll have every hunter and demon on earth wanting a piece of him."

"Yeah," Dean agreed with a chuckle. "Nothing quite like the risk of exposure to piss off a bunch of hunters. Still, if he's not just some nut job and that journal really _could_ lead us to those castings, being able to outfit an army of hunters with more of those Colt revolvers would definitely give us an edge."

"An edge no demon is gonna be willing and happy to let us have," Bobby cautioned. "If Scruggs doesn't shut the hell up and continue to lay low, he's likely to find himself face to face with one of the 'unnatural things' he read about in that journal."

"He's playing things pretty close to the chest, though, Bobby," Dean reasoned. "He's not revealing the location of the journal and it sounds like he's gone into hiding. Pretty smart, if you ask me."

"Yeah, but there's too much at stake here, Dean. There's no tellin' what all there might be scrawled in that journal that could win or lose this war for us, depending on which side gets hold of it. This could put a lot of good people, hunters, at risk, not to mention Scruggs, too. Hell, give a whiz-kid researcher like Sam a few days and he could probably ferret this guy out of whatever hole he's crawled into, no matter where it is or how deep it goes."

"And that's why we can't let Sammy know about this," Dean implored. He flipped the magazine shut and peered at the publishing date on it. "This issue's nearly a month old already and things have been quiet. I say we just sit back, keep our ears to the ground and let this blow over. Once Sam's better, we can follow up the leads and see if there's any truth to them. It's going to be hard enough to get Sam to sign that consent, but if he catches wind of that article now, I'll _never_ convince him to get his arm taken care of."

Bobby was thoughtfully shaking his head in agreement. "We're on the same page, then. I figured, if Sam knew about this, he'd sign out of here to chase down that journal and play guard dog to Scruggs instead of gettin' the care he needs. So, I'm with you on this, Dean. We keep quiet and concentrate on Sam."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"Hey, Dean," Sam greeted as his older brother strolled back into his room. "Where's Bobby?"

"There's a dude down the road that owns a shop. He's got a '67 Ford Mustang Coupe that he's restoring. Bobby's got an original '67 'stang grill back at the salvage yard that he's trading the guy for letting him use his shop and his tools so he can give his heap a little CPR. I guess it took a bit of a beating getting through that wicked storm to get here."

The half-truth slipped off Dean's tongue so easily that it made him feel sleazy and despicable. Sure he'd spent most of his life lying. He'd lied about his identity, lied about his home life, lied about his "job" and it had all rolled out of his mouth without really a second thought and even less guilt. But, somehow, lying to Sam always sent shards of shame slashing through Dean, even if, just as in this case, it was for his little brother's own good.

Bobby really _had_ traded the classic grill in exchange for use of the owner's garage and all of his tools. But there had been more reasons behind Bobby's disappearing act than just the storm-battered truck. First and foremost, Bobby and Dean both wanted that magazine and its article about Samuel Colt as far away from Sam as they could get it. Secondly, Bobby wanted a nice, out of the way spot with as few eavesdropping ears as possible in which to ring Jefferson. And what better place to make the call than to slip out back while any prying ears would be occupied by the sounds of air wrenches, hydraulic lifts, clanging tools and the shop's small radio that constantly blared the local station's rock and roll playlist.

The two older hunters had decided that Bobby should call Jefferson and place a few well-crafted and ambiguous inquiries as to any scuttlebutt that might be sloshing around the very informal hunter's grapevine. Although Jefferson was a trusted ally and had collaborated on more than a few hunts, they had nixed the idea of direct questioning regarding Samuel Colt, feeling that the fewer number of people that knew of the article and its possible leads, the better. The information could make Jefferson a target if any demons came looking and even some of the best hunters had been known to crack in the face of torture from a supernatural adversary and blown another hunter's cover or divulged some sort of compromising information.

"I don't think there's been a vehicle made that Bobby doesn't have parts for," Sam hypothesized.

"Yeah," Dean agreed simply, a sudden awkwardness descending over the brothers.

Sam knew Bobby would have told Dean about his stubbornness in refusing to sign the surgical consent and he sat tense and rigid waiting for the explosion of anger he was sure would follow. The suspense pulled at his aching muscles, taut kinks forming in painful disapproval of the stress. Unthinking, Sam rolled his shoulders in an effort to loosen the rocklike constrictions and regretted the hiss of agony that pierced its way through his entire right arm. He tried determinedly to suppress the nearly involuntary grimace of pain that flashed briefly across his face but it was just too little, too late. It was clear by the way Dean paled that he had seen it and Sam supposed that would be the only catalyst needed to light the fuse on his brother's powder keg of fury.

Dean had fully intended to come at Sam with both guns blazing and keep on blasting until his baby brother backed down and agreed to the surgery. But seeing the pain such a small and simple movement had caused his brother, drove home the seriousness of the situation and just what might lie ahead if he was unable to change Sam's mind.

Suddenly, the familiar feelings of panic and overwhelming despair he'd endured all too frequently of late, picked at his fraying nerves as a bombardment of horribly vivid images assaulted Dean's mind. They were images of the past and they were images of the future. In the blink of an eye, Dean re-lived the painful memories of Sam dying in his arms as they crouched helplessly in the South Dakota mud, a final embrace the only thing that passed between them. Then there were flickering images of their trek out of the woods, Sam pushing with everything he had even as his strength slipped silently away, the endless hours spent at his bedside praying for even the smallest of miracles and then images of Sam's arm, festered and oozing with pus as severe infection overwhelms his baby brother's vitality and Death steals him away once again.

Sam watched in wide-eyed concern as Dean's trembling hand unconsciously rubbed across his chest. "Dean? Dean, are you ok?"

Dean wordlessly rose from the chair he'd settled into at Sam's beside and, turning his back to his little brother, limped his way to the window. It was taking everything he had to hold the panic at bay and keep himself from dissolving into yet another round of hyperventilating. Dean's chest felt incredibly tight and his stomach rolled viciously as the ramifications of Sam's refusal tore at his defenses.

"Dean? Come on, man. Talk to me." Sam's voice broke over the last few syllables as his anxiety over his older brother grew. His unease only intensified as the trembling that he'd seen in Dean's hands seemed to engulf him and the older boy reached for the windowsill to steady himself.

"It hurts, Sammy," Dean breathed out in a whisper so soft that Sam almost couldn't hear him, his right hand still tracing a path back and forth across his tightening chest. "It hurts so damned much and I can't do it."

Sam's face twisted in confusion and anxiety. Bobby had said Dean was ok; that the doctors had given him a clean bill of health. And now here's Dean in front of him, barely able to stand on his own and admitting he's in pain. What was going on? Had Bobby and Dean been lying all this time?

"What hurts? What can't you do?"

Dean turned on shaky legs to face Sam, the hopeless and lost look of a man trapped in his worst nightmare staining his face. Fat tears had brimmed over his lower lashes and raced downward across the pale landscape of Dean's cheeks. The fact that Dean seemed not to notice that he was openly crying caused Sam to break out in a cold sweat.

Dean had only just rebuilt the walls around his emotions and the mortar he'd used to smooth over the cracks was still so thin and weak that Dean knew the walls were in danger of crumbling completely again. The tears fell faster and his breathing hitched unevenly as he raked both hands into his hair. Knotting clumps of golden-brown spikes in his fists, Dean curled his arms down over his head, as though doing so could cork off the flow of unwelcome emotions.

"Dean, please. Just tell me what's wrong. You're scaring me."

"I can't do it anymore, Sammy," Dean muffled out past his clenched arms before allowing them to fall limply at his sides. "I can't sit here again and watch you die, watch you _kill_ yourself, because you won't sign that release. I'm done in, Sammy," Dean lurched out between his tears. "I'm dangling off the edge of an emotional cliff and I can't hold on anymore. I just can't."

"Dean, I just..."

"No, Sammy," Dean interrupted, raising his red-rimmed eyes to meet Sam's. "I shouldn't have waited to tell you this. I've made so many mistakes. I've tried so hard to stay strong. I've tried to bury things away so that no one can see the hurt; tried to bury the awful things I've seen and done. In the process, it's also buried away the things that are the most important; things that should never have gone unsaid."

"They didn't _have_ to be said, Dean," Sam responded softly. "Even when it wasn't said, I've always known."

"Yes, it did, Sam. It _did_ need to be said." Dean's face filled with regret. "I love you, Sam. I've always loved you. And sitting here, watching you die, it tore me apart, Sam. It tore me apart so bad that I wanted to die right along with you. I can't go through that again. I can't watch you kill yourself over a bunch of 'what if's' we're not sure even exist. I know you don't agree with what I did, with making the deal. But I _know _you've got to understand why I did it. I love you. Please, Sammy, _please_ sign the consent."

Sam sat in quiet reflection as Dean slumped bonelessly back into the bedside chair. The sudden onslaught and release of emotion had completely spent the young hunter and the continued tossing of his stomach was only further sapping what little energy he had left. Dean used his forearm to wipe at the wet tracks left by his tears as he worked to keep his breathing even.

"It was real, wasn't it?," Sam questioned softly.

Dean looked up tiredly, his mind trying to catch up with the sudden shift in the conversation. "Was what real?"

"When I was...," Sam began, but then fumbled to a stop, searching for the right words. "...I guess I was unconscious...and something happened...I felt like I had been lost in the dark. But then I heard your voice. You were telling me that you loved me...that you'd always been too afraid to say it. Suddenly, it felt like I was snatched out of the darkness and you were there, holding my hand. When I woke up, I figured it was just a dream. But, it wasn't, was it?"

"No," Dean confirmed softly. "It wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare..._my_ nightmare. You were leaving me and I'd never told you. You were dying, and you still might if you don't sign that consent. You can't leave me to do this alone, Sam, please." Dean swallowed heavily as his stomach lurched sickeningly with the strong emotions that coursed through him. "I love you and you've just got to sign it, please."

Tears welled in Sam's eyes and he looked away guiltily. Why did love have to be so complicated? Why did it seem that loving someone always meant hurting them, too? "I _do_ understand why you made the deal, Dean. I love you, too. And that's why I can't sign it. I may never find a way to get you out of the deal, but I have to at least try. If I can't hunt, I can't do that. Dean, I just can't sign that paper if it means he might take my arm."

A syrupy thick silence descended over the room as both boys sat with their heads bowed, each one unable to watch the impact their words and decisions had on the other. Dean felt his stomach shifting badly as his thoughts and emotions tumbled crazily between sincere gratitude for the sacrifice his baby brother was prepared to make for him and his desperation to prevent that sacrifice from occurring. There _had_ to be something he could do. Something that would wake him from this never-ending nightmare.

Dean could feel a sourness filling his mouth as the bitterness began a slow crawl up his throat. He swallowed repeatedly, trying to force his stomach into submission even as his turbulent emotions continued to agitate it. The churning only increased the harder Dean tried to quell it and he knew it was only a matter of time before the battle would be lost. Dean rose from his chair and quickly hobbled for the door. He was going to be sick, he knew that. But he'd be damned if he was going to fall apart and hurl his guts into some trash can as his little brother watched. He'd already been weak in front of Bobby and Dean remembered all too well the way that Bobby had looked at him. Sam had always looked up to him and he knew he wouldn't be able to stand it if Sam looked at him the way that Bobby had.

"Dean? Dean, please don't leave," Sam begged. "I know you're angry with me and I'm sorry, but..."

Dean had just reached the doorway as he felt his guts reel violently and he dove wordlessly through the opening, dashing down the hall towards the bathroom. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of his younger brother calling after him.

"Dean! Dean, come back! Please!"

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

He sat back on his haunches and wiped his shaking hand across his face, the acidic sting of vomit still strong in his mouth. Dean's stomach had finally quieted but his thoughts continued to spin crazily. Sam wouldn't sign as long as the surgeon threatened to take his arm. If he didn't sign, it could take his life. It was a no-win situation and no matter how you looked at it, the options sucked.

It was obvious to Dean that there was no way he was going to change Sam's mind. _He's never going to get his arm looked after as long as he might lose it, _Dean mused as he sat dejectedly on the men's room floor. He reached a hand out and slapped it down on the toilet lever, happy to see the foul contents he'd brought up into the bowl making their escape. His stomach gurgled unhappily from its recent purging and he scrubbed a hand across his abdomen in hopes of soothing it. "Oh, knock it off," he grumbled out loud to his stomach. "I've already puked, ok? It kinda screws with the whole 'trying to look cool' thing, so don't you dare make me lose it again. Not that I look all that cool sitting on the bathroom floor and talking to my-..."

Dean stopped abruptly, his mind whirling and his heart racing as his own words and those of his younger brother bounced through his head. He quickly scrambled to his feet and pushed his way out of the stall, the door banging back and forth several times with the force of his rushed exit. Stopping briefly at the sink, he hurriedly swished a handful of water around his mouth to remove the lingering bitterness and spat it into the sink. Cupping his hands, he splashed some cool water on his face and ran a quick hand through his spiky hair. He jerked a few rough, institutional paper towels from their holder and dabbed hastily at his dripping face before tossing the crumpled wad in the direction of a nearby receptacle and bolted from the restroom, disappearing down the hallway in the opposite direction from Sam's room.

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

"Have a seat in here, Mr. Winchester," the graying receptionist directed as she motioned Dean into a narrow, cramped room. "Dr. Hartzell will be in to speak with you as soon as he can."

The sign outside the door had read 'Family Consultation Room' but Dean wondered just how a real family was supposed to fit into such a tiny space. He extended his arms out to his sides across the narrow room and wasn't at all surprised when the fingertips of each hand brushed the walls.

"Frickin' broom closet," Dean muttered irritably. Two upholstered chairs were situated side by side on one of the longest walls. Dean removed his leather coat and tossed it on the seat of one of them before settling into the other. A small table with a telephone and a lamp sat just to the left of Dean on the short wall and another upholstered chair was arranged beyond that, canted slightly so that it fit nicely into the corner of the room and faced the other chairs. A magazine rack, sparsely populated with tattered and outdated periodicals, sat against the opposite short wall, just under the wall-mounted TV set.

Forty-five minutes of drumming his fingers on the chair's wooden arm rests, bouncing his knees and nervously humming Metallica finally came to an end when Dr. Hartzell burst through the closed door of the room and slammed it loudly shut behind himself.

"So, which one are you - Curly or Shemp?," the surgeon spit out acerbically as he flopped into the corner chair and propped his feet on the chair next to Dean, heedless to the fact that his shoes were grinding dirty streaks into the younger man's leather coat.

"Excuse me?," Dean sputtered out, his surprise at the tornadic arrival of the physician and the explosive delivery of his off-beat question clearly evident in the stunned expression on his face.

"I've already met with the other two Stooges so that only leaves Curly or Shemp. Let's make this quick and not waste any more of my precious time than we have to, shall we?"

"You're my brother's surgeon and..."

"I know very well who I am and I also know that I recommended a surgical procedure that your brother has refused." Dr. Hartzell rose to leave. "Unless you're here to tell me he's reconsidered, then we obviously have nothing to discuss."

Dean was completely floored by the physician's horrendous attitude. It wasn't like Bobby hadn't warned him about Hartzell's temperament but Dean had expected arrogant, not downright offensive. _Calling this guy arrogant, _Dean thought, _is like calling a demon a little 'unfriendly'. _

"You don't get to leave yet," Dean growled as he stepped in front of the door, placing himself between the man and his only route of escape. "I don't know what the hell your problem is that's made you the asshole you are. Maybe your diapers were in a bunch when you were a baby or you drove a shitty car as a teenager or maybe it's because you haven't even been able to _buy_ a good lay lately, I don't know. And I don't really care, either, because I'm told you're the best surgeon around and there is _nothing _in this world that's gonna stop me from doing whatever I can to get my kid brother's arm fixed. Somewhere between Asswipe 101 and Bad Bedside Manner 102 you took the Hippocritic oath to..."

"Hippo_cratic_. It's the Hippocratic oath, dimwit," Dr. Hartzell corrected.

"No. No, in your case I'm pretty sure I got it right," Dean shot back. "You took an oath to help sick and injured people and you're too busy being the world's biggest hypocrite to actually take the time to do that! You knew Sam wouldn't sign that consent as long as he stands to lose his arm and all you did was walk out on him!"

"I advised your brother of the treatment that is necessary and, whether you and Uncle Bubba like it or not, I'm not in the business of holding hands and wiping noses. If an idiot wants to refuse treatment, there's not much I can do about it."

"Oh, come on, Dr. Hardass! You can do more and you and I both know it," Dean accused loudly, his index finger jabbing the air threateningly.

"That's Dr. _Hartzell_," the indignant surgeon hissed.

"Yeah, whatever. They say you're the best surgeon around but, if that's the case, then you need to do something to show me you've earned that reputation honestly," Dean challenged. "As far as I can see, you're just an arrogant, self-absorbed and spiteful tyrant who thinks he's God because no one has ever had the gonads to stand up to you and let you in on the truth!"

Dean was breathing heavily by the time he was finished and suddenly realized he had unconsciously adopted a fighting stance. He relaxed his body but his eyes never wavered from the surgeon standing just an arm's length in front of him. Dean knew he could easily take the older man if it came to blows, but he wasn't going to let his guard down too much and let the obnoxious pain in the ass get the satisfaction of getting the drop on him.

Hartzell's fist was balled so tightly as he held it against his equally tightly pursed lips that his knuckles had gone white. His facial expression appeared hardened, the skin so reddened it looked to Dean as though the man would soon be blowing steam from his ears. Although Dean blocked the physician's path out the door, Hartzell stood between Dean and the telephone, a fact that Dean now regretted not planning for.

All it would take to get Dean barred from his brother's bedside would be a quick call from Hartzell to the Security office. Dean's mind was occupied in formulating ways to prevent Hartzell from making the call and he was caught off-guard when the surgeon's arm suddenly snaked out towards him. The older man's hand had already landed and clamped firmly on Dean's shoulder as he tried to block it by bringing his arm up in a defensive maneuver.

"Easy there, Rambo. You sure got a set of stones on you, you know that? And while we're reviewing personality traits...you're cocky, you're brash, and above all else, you're as ballsy and insolent as hell," Hartzell explained with a laugh and a friendly shake of Dean's shoulder. "I like that about you. Kind of reminds me of myself at your age."

"God help me," Dean grumbled under his breath, glancing up suddenly to see what Hartzell's reaction would be.

The sixty-something surgeon chuckled. The warm smile that spread across his face looked almost out of place after the heated exchange that had occurred between the two men. "In all of the years I've been practicing, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people - patients, families, nurses and other doctors - that have stood their ground with me. I respect you for the gutsiness you've shown. It's made you a most worthy adversary."

"Worthy enough for you to help my brother?"

The surgeon bobbed his head up and down a few times before speaking. "Yeah. I think I can spare the ink to re-write that consent for just the debridement...no amputation. Although, I'm still not sure Sam will sign it...or that that bulldog of an uncle of yours will let me get near him, for that matter."

"You just worry about making arrangements to do the surgery. I'll worry about calling off the dogs and getting Sam to sign."

"Deal. But," Dr. Hartzell added quickly, "this comes with a few caveats and concessions."

"Great," Dean groaned sarcastically. "Something tells me I've just become your bitch."

"In order that Sam agrees to some form of treatment, I'll do the debridement alone but I _still_ consider amputation to be Sam's best course of treatment and will include that information in his records."

"Just protecting yourself if things get ugly," Dean assured. "Got it. Now, what about those concessions?"

"Don't you dare let it get around that I'm anything less than Dr. Hardass. Got it?"

Dean laughed openly. "Yeah, sure, Doc. You got it. Dr. Hardass it is."

Hartzell clapped Dean on the back, turned and pulled the door open. As the older man strolled out, Dean could hear him muttering and chuckling to himself. "Dr. Hardass. Never heard that one before. I kinda like that."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The following day, 10:30 AM**

"Dean, will you sit down, already?" Bobby snarled. "You're as jittery as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

"I can't help it, Bobby. I'm worried."

"Look," Bobby reasoned, "they said we'd be able to see Sam in about ten minutes. He made it through the surgery just fine, so there's nothing to worry about. They just need a chance to get him settled in Recovery, is all. Now will you _please_ sit down and relax before you have your fingernails chewed down to nothing but bloody stubs."

Dean stared out the waiting area windows, absently twirling the pull string for the vertical blinds around his index finger before releasing it and starting all over again. "What if this surgery isn't enough? What if it's so bad that they still want to take his arm?" Dean turned towards Bobby, his eyes moist and filled with apprehension. "I barely got him to agree to do this much, Bobby. I'll never get him to sign for anything more. So, yeah, don't even think I'm gonna come close to relaxing," Dean confessed quietly, "until I hear what Hartzell has to say about the condition of Sam's arm."

Bobby glanced away guiltily, suddenly taking an interest in the abstract design of the room's carpeting. He understood the younger man's nervousness and, somehow, making any more of it just seemed like rubbing salt in a wound. "Yeah, Hartzell," Bobby said with a small chuckle. "Did you really call him, 'Dr. Hardass'?"

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, an amused small lighting his face and the tension leaving his shoulders. "Yeah, I guess I did."

"You sure know how to sweet talk 'em, don't you, boy?"

"Yeah, well, he pissed me off. Anyway, I didn't exactly see you getting anywhere with him," Dean gently chided his friend.

Bobby had just opened his mouth to retort when a female voice called out and interrupted him.

"Mr. Winchester, Mr. Singer. If you'll follow me, I'll take you to see Sam."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**4 hours later, Sam's room**

"You're sure he didn't say anything about how things went?"

Sam shuffled slightly in bed, a hard wince shattering his boyish features before he could find a comfortable position. Although his right arm was throbbing nearly mercilessly now, it wasn't the arm that was aggravating him the most.

"You having pain, Sam?," Bobby asked, a tinge of concern fluttering through his voice. Sam had appeared pretty comfortable when they'd moved him from the Recovery area and back to his room almost three hours ago. Lately, though, Sam was looking really washed-out and acting even more irritable.

"Yeah, Bobby. I _am_ having pain. I'm having a pain in my ass," Sam griped tiredly, another wince broadcasting his increasing discomfort. "...and it's named Dean. I've already gone through this. How many more times do I have to tell the same story?"

"Just humor me, ok? As hard as you made me work to get you to agree to having the arm looked after," Dean pouted, "you owe me as many 'story times' as I want. Now start again from the beginning."

"Bobby..." Sam hoped a healthy whine and a flash of his best puppy-dog eyes to the older man would grant him a reprieve from reciting the same litany of boring and uninformative facts he'd already reviewed.

"One last time, Sam," Bobby cajoled, knowing just how freaked out the older sibling was that they had yet to hear Hartzell's take on the success of the procedure. "But your brother's just going to have to settle for the CliffsNotes version. You're looking really beat."

Sam sighed deeply. He hadn't felt this exhausted since he awoke in the ICU. And, if the pain level was any clue, the regional anesthesia they had used to complete the procedure was quickly wearing off. Nerve endings that had previously been content to go unheard from before the surgery to cut away the dead tissue were now shrieking malevolently.

"Pay attention, Dean," Sam scolded testily, "because I'm not repeating this again. Because of my throat, the anesthesiologist said it would be safer to do the surgery under regional anesthesia, so they injected medicine that numbed my whole arm."

"But you were awake, right? You heard everything that was said during the operation," Dean interrupted impatiently.

"Yes. I was awake. And, no, I didn't hear anything important. Mostly, it was Dr. Heartless berating his OR staff for one reason or another. When he was done, they wrapped it and then packed me off to Recovery. He claimed he was going to talk with us about it, but it never happened. And you know the rest of the story."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean groused. "The nurse said he had an emergent trauma case and would talk with us later in your room. And here we are still waiting. I bet he's in the lounge, kicked back and swilling coffee and laughing his ass off that we're up here sweating it out. I swear I'm gonna go hunt that old bastard down and drag his sorry ass back here."

"No need, Curly, the old bastard's already here." Dr. Hartzell bustled into the room. "And the coffee was pretty good, too," he stated as he set an empty paper coffee cup on a nearby stand. On his way to Sam's side, Hartzell's shoulder collided brusquely enough with Dean's to knock the younger man back a step. "Excuse you," the surgeon spat out.

Bobby was ready to tear into the aging physician but held his tongue only because he was just as desperate as Dean to hear about Sam's arm. Afterwards, though, Bobby was determined he would find a way to give the arrogant jerk a piece of his mind.

Hartzell was already bent over Sam's right arm, inspecting the bandaging that encompassed the limb from fingertips to shoulder. The ends of Sam's fingers barely stuck out beyond the bulky gauze dressings and the physician peered intently at them as he pressed his own finger into each one successively to check for circulation.

"Well?," Dean could hardly contain himself. He just _had_ to know if Sam would still be in danger of losing his arm or, worse yet, succumbing to infection because he was too pig-headed to see reason.

"Well," Dr. Hartzell began tantalizingly, "once I removed the necrotic tissue, the underlying structures on the arm looked better than I thought they might. The human hand has very little tissue protecting the vital motor structures. In Sam's case, nearly seventy-five percent of that tissue is damaged to some degree - some places not so much, some places rather significantly."

"That's why he had better movement in some fingers than others," Dean guessed.

"Ooo, another successful graduate from Redneck U. Impressive. But, in a nutshell, yes. I debrided the entire area as best I could, but I doubt Sam will regain much useful movement in that hand. Providing, of course, that further tissue death and infection don't force the amputation that I'm _still_ recommending."

"If you're such a damned good surgeon," Bobby sneered, "why would there be more tissue death or chance of infection?"

"Jinkies, Fred! It's probably because Scooby and Shaggy, here," Hartzell retorted, pointing first at Dean and then at Sam, "chickened out on letting me do what needs to be done. If we'd proceeded with the amputation that I had recommended, then it wouldn't be a factor. But since I'm fresh out of Scooby Snacks, I was only permitted to do what I warned you bozos was a half-assed job. I cleaned out what I could. But if the remaining tissue was already in the process of dying off, just cleaning the arm out might not be enough to prevent that tissue from eventually dying, too. Not to mention that I had to remove so much tissue that I was only able to completely close about fifty percent of the wound. The remaining fifty percent is going to have to granulate in on its own. Until it does, Sam's got a large open wound that's practically the frickin' Ritz-Carlton for a whole smorgasbord of germs."

The room fell eerily silent as each of the hunters dealt with the repercussions of Dr. Hartzell's words. It was Sam that spoke first, cutting Dean off just as he was readying to ask a question.

"No, Dean," Sam began softly. "I did what we agreed on. I had the wound cleaned out. Don't ask me to do more than that."

"But, Sam...," Dean pleaded.

"Damn it, Dean. You know my reasons. I'm _not_ going to let him take my arm."

"Boys," Bobby broke in, knowing he needed to do something to gain control of the situation before the brothers were outright yelling at one another. "So what's the next move then, Dr. Hartzell?"

"We keep Sam on IV antibiotics to help prevent infection, do meticulous dressing changes under sterile conditions and monitor the health of the wound. I also want to get him started with someone from Physical Therapy. The exercises can help improve circulation and that, in turn, can improve tissue health and lessen the chance of infection. What it will do for mobility - well, let's just say I wouldn't go expecting any miracles. Now, if we're done here, I have other patients to see."

The surgeon turned to leave and Dean followed closely behind. Judging by the look on Dean's face, Bobby was pretty certain the chip on Dr. Hartzell's shoulder was going to get knocked off by some pretty serious Winchester-style justice. He wanted to follow to prevent Dean from making a mistake that would surely put him in jail, but after enduring Hartzell's harsh words and raw appraisal that his arm would likely never being useful again, Sam was looking downright ill. Bobby opted to stay with Sam, but threw a word of caution at his older sibling by drawling out his name, knowing the boy would understand the meaning behind it.

As the door to Sam's room swooshed shut the surgeon turned and faced the younger man. "I really wish I'd had better news, Dean."

"Yeah, me too. But I still have to thank you," Dean asserted solemnly as he shook the physician's hand in a strong grasp. "I know you did everything you could."

Hartzell placed his other large hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed slightly. "I really did. But I've got to thank you, too, for letting me keep my cover in there. Can't have it getting around that old Hardass Hartzell is really Heartstrings Hartzell."

**-:-:-:-:-:-:-**

**The next day, Sam's room**

In some ways, it had been a bit of a fight and Sam was certain, had the nurses not insisted, that Dean would have stayed right there at his side. Sam also knew that Dean would have been nosing into everything, flirting with the nursing staff and generally irritating him until he'd be ready to crawl right out of his skin.

As it was, though, the nurses and Dr. Hartzell's orders had actually rescued Sam from his brother's overzealous good intentions. Because the dressing changes to Sam's arm were to be done under the strictest of sterile procedure both Dean and Bobby, and any unnecessary personnel for that matter, were to be barred from the room. The less bodies that were breathing the air and rustling around the room, the less germs there would be floating around the room and potentially setting up housekeeping in the open wound on Sam's arm.

The nurses had worn what they had called isolation gowns and hair caps, in addition to their sterile gloves and disposable masks. They had given Sam some pain medicine before starting the dressing change and tried their best to be as gentle as possible, but the arm had protested more violently than Sam could remember since receiving the bite. In the end, he was glad that Dean and Bobby had been forced out and had gone off to work on Bobby's truck. If nothing else, it give him some time to collect himself and appear more comfortable than he really was before they got back.

The nurses had turned the TV on before leaving the room, hoping the distraction would help Sam relax and allow a second dose of pain medicine to work better. Sam had turned it off after only a few minutes, finding the cacophony of 'The Price Is Right' more than his shattered nerves could bear. Instead, he sat quietly on the bed and tried to distract himself from the throbbing in his arm by analyzing Dean's interaction with Dr. Hartzell. The surgeon had been his usual rude, crude and obnoxious self and Sam had expected Dean to be so infuriated that Bobby would have had to hold him back just so he wouldn't kill the man. But Dean had hardly batted an eye and then followed the man out of the room. He and Bobby had been certain there was going to be a round of verbal assaults in the hallway, but Dean merely returned minutes later looking rather dejected and defeated. Just what had gone down between the two men? And why was the surgeon's antagonistic behavior not conjuring up the typical badass response from Dean?

Sam had kept his cell phone charged and resting on the bedside stand so that he could reach Dean or Bobby if the need arose. As he sat considering the Dean and Dr. Hartzell mystery, the phone began buzzing and vibrating around the top of the stand. Sam gingerly reached over and answered.

"Hello?"

"_Hey, Sam, it's Jefferson."_

"Hey, Jefferson. It's been a while, you old dog. How you doing?"

"_Better 'en you I guess, Sam. Sorry to hear about you being laid up."_

"Well I'm doing a lot better now, thanks. What's up?"

"_I've got some information on what Bobby and Dean called about. I can't reach them, though. Keep getting an "Out of service area" recording. I figured I'd try the brains of the operation and, well, if you didn't pick up, huh? Anyway, just wanted to let you know that I haven't heard anything about that Scruggs guy, but Bennett's turned up dead - very messy dead. Like pretty obvious it was 'at the hands of a demon' kind of dead."_

"When did Dean and Bobby call you?"

"_Bobby called a couple days ago. Just asked a few questions about some guys named Scruggs and Bennett. Asked me to keep an ear out about them. Said it had something to do with a case the three of you had been working on. Hey, Sam, hate to cut you short, but I've got to run. I'll call again next week and see how you're doing."_

"Uh...yeah, ok. Talk with you later, Jefferson."

Sam flipped the cell phone shut with a slap and bounced the hand clutching it up and down on his left thigh as his mind tried to pick apart the puzzling call. "Ok," he said aloud to the empty room. "What the hell was _that_ all about?"

Sam's thoughts were interrupted when a light rapping came from the doorway. An elderly gentleman dressed in a light blue, button-front smock stepped into the room. The patch on the left chest of his smock said, 'Volunteer'.

"Hey, Clarence," Sam greeted, forcing a thin smile to his face in an attempt to cover his discomfort.

Clarence was a silver-haired octogenarian that volunteered at the hospital several days a week by pushing the magazine and book cart to patient rooms, engaging them in idle chit-chat and assisting them to pick items from the cart that might help to take their minds from their troubles for at least a little while. He'd met Sam not long after he'd awakened and immediately took to the well-mannered and gentle-natured youth.

Although the boy had obviously been very ill, Clarence could see that nothing ever got past him, he always seemed to notice even the smallest of details. So it was that Sam had seen and recognized the tiny portion of Clarence's Marine Corp tattoo that stuck out from under his upturned shirt-sleeves. Sam had asked him about it and Clarence had enjoyed regaling the mop-haired boy with stories of his time with the 2nd Battalion, 28th Marines and how they played a big role in capturing Mount Surabachi during World War II.

"Oh, dear," the amazingly robust elderly man crowed. His young friend was exceptionally pale and a thin sheen of sweat had sprung across his forehead. He was doing his best to appear normal, even pasting an artificial smile on his face, but something was clearly not right. "Are you alright, Sam? Do you want me to get a nurse?"

"No, that's ok, Clarence. They just finished my dressing change and the arm, well..."

"It's screamin' like a two-dollar whore, isn't it?"

Sam chuckled heavily. Even in his eighties, some fifty or sixty years after serving in the war, Clarence still couldn't seem to wash away the blunt and rugged part of him that had been built by the United States Marine Corp. In some ways, though, Sam mused, it was that rough around the edges, no-nonsense part of him that made Clarence seem so much younger than his years.

"Spoken like a true Marine, Clarence," Sam poked. "Don't know that I would have put it that way but, yeah, it's hurting quite a bit. I was just sitting here trying to distract myself until the pain meds took effect. I just couldn't take anymore of that TV."

"Baahh, that drivel," Clarence lamented. "Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, John Wayne - now _that_ was when they knew how to make good entertainment. Unfortunately, my cart's fresh out, so we're gonna have to settle for something else. Kinda slim pickin's I'm afraid but...oh, hey, I just got the newest issue of "Guns & Ammo" in. I'll even throw in a left-over copy of last month's issue for nothin'. My treat, seein' as how you need the distraction so bad and all."

The kindness of the old gentleman touched Sam and a genuine smile dimpled his cheeks. "That sounds great, Clarence. Thanks."

The aging veteran hurried back into the hall towards his pushcart, pleased that he could do something, even as small as it was, to try to distract the young man from his pain. Returning to Sam's room, Clarence placed the two magazines on Sam's overbed table and positioned it to extend across his lap like a desk.

"This issue's got a dandy article on the M1 Garand," the older man stated as he tapped on the top issue. "She was one of the first semi-automatics issued to American GI's during World War II and was quite the workhorse. Carried one of them myself. Quite the beaut, she was. And dependable as hell, too. Always ready when you needed her, you know. She was a damned fine weapon, in my opinion," Clarence reminisced. "But if you need a good laugh, check out the older issue. Some nutcase going on about 'magic' guns. It's amazing what they'll print today. Well, best get movin', Sam. If I don't get this cart back and hoof it to Mrs. Pulaski's room in time to eat lunch with her, she'll have my hide. She's a widow, you know, and I think she's sweet on me."

Sam chuckled at the antics of the boisterous senior citizen as he scooted quickly out the door and trundled his cart down the hallway. Pushing the issues so that they lay side by side, Sam opened each one to the contents page. He'd only just begun scanning the contents of the oldest issue when his eyes fell upon an intriguing article title. Flipping quickly to the listed page, he read with interest the article titled, "Samuel Colt: Fabled Firearm or Fanciful Fiction?"

When he'd finished the last word, he slowly laid the magazine back down on the overbed table. His head was a gyrating flurry of thoughts and emotions about the two men he'd read about in the article. Apparently, the same two men that Dean and Bobby had asked Jefferson to inquire about. Sam's fury flared as he realized that Bobby and Dean had kept the information from him and he crushed his thumb angrily onto the nurse's call button.

"Did you need something, Sam?," the young nurse questioned as she breeched the doorway to his room.

"Get me all the paperwork I'll need," Sam growled as he shoved the bedsheets aside with his left hand, "because I'm signing out against medical advice. Now!"

* * *

A/N: "Pandora's Box" is a track from Aerosmith's 1974 album, 'Get Your Wings', as well as the name of their 1991 compilation album. In Greek mythology, when Pandora's Box was opened all the evils and nasties of the world were accidentally released to wreak havoc upon the world. I thought it was a good choice for this chapter since Sam's injury and his discovery of the article about Sam Colt has pretty much opened up a Winchester-style Pandora's Box. 


	15. End notes

I know many of you have followed along on this story and for that I am incredibly grateful and appreciate your time and kind comments.

I am continuing this story under its sequel's name "Atrox". I'm posting this notice here for those of you that have added story alerts to "Crotalus" since I posted the final chapter.

I hope that you come on over to "Atrox" and join in the fun. If all goes well, I'll earn your continued readership!

Salemschild


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